


Cold Comfort

by empollard



Series: Pyro's Peace [1]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men (Original Timeline Movies)
Genre: Gen, Heavy Angst, Light Angst, Might touch on alternate timeline in the next one, No Romance, No alternate timeline, Origin Story, Other, Potential triggers for abuse, Pyro figuring out life, Triggers, if no torture in this one there is likely to be in the next, somewhat graphic depiction of abuse and possibly torture, will be romance for Pyro in the next one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-16 12:05:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9269927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empollard/pseuds/empollard
Summary: Surviving an unhappy childhood Pyro thinks he's found his place among the Brotherhood until true colors show and he begins to question their basic tenets. When his dad's past comes back to haunt him, he's forced to rely on the Brotherhood to help save him. Two planned stories--this first one is intended to be an origin type story.





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally published on FanFiction.net. I'm still updating over there but also adding it over here, as well.

** Cold Comfort, Part I: Beginnings **

Webster's Dictionary:  
**cold comfort**  
quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

* * *

_ Six Years Old _

The boy marked his color-testing page with the yellow-orange crayon. Nope, that wasn’t it. Furrowing his brow, he dug through the colors again. Hmmm, mac and cheese. He liked mac and cheese but doubted the color would be right. Marking the test page again, he nodded. His suspicions were confirmed. _That_ wouldn’t work, either. Another forage through the shoe box of crayons produced burnt orange. That sounded perfect! The test was disappointing, though–too brown. The boy rubbed the tip of his nose before scrounging though the colors again. A flash of bright orange caught his eye and he pulled out a flame orange triumphantly. His eyes lit up as he marked the test page. Perfect!

He bent over the page he was coloring, frowning in concentration, the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth. The only things left on the picture were the flames and he wanted them perfect, like the rest of the picture. He carefully streaked in the orange color over the yellow and reds he’d already laid down.

The fire emanated from a ferocious dragon. He’d colored it dark green and black with red-orange eyes and blood staining one claw. He knew that St. George defeated the dragon (of _course_ he did, he was the knight), but figured the dragon had been fierce and would’ve drawn blood at least once before his destruction.

On the other side of the flames was St. George–a strong-looking knight with bright silver armor, holding a large shield in front of him that the fire licked against in an effort to destroy the hero. The boy impatiently brushed a strand of brown hair out of his eyes and added another streak of orange in the center of the flame.

This was one of John’s favorite stories. _St._ John was his full name but he’d never liked it. It reminded him of the old, gaunt-looking men in the pictures at church. Weak and sickly-looking, he thought. And then Grandma sat him down one day (was he 3 at the time? musta been 3 or 4) and read to him the story of St. George and the dragon. St. George, the _hero_. He was proud of his name after that, never dreaming that saints could be so...you know, _cool_.

They’d gone onto other stories after that–King Arthur, Sir Lancelot, and Merlin the magician. He always thought his father must be a knight of some sort. Maybe he disguised himself in suits and ties but surely he was a knight underneath it all.

_ He told his Grandma that one day when he was four, sitting on her lap after hearing about the Lady of the Lake. She laughed that crackly but wonderful laugh that John loved. It sounded even better knowing he’d been the cause. A cocky little grin lifted the corners of his mouth, which seemed to delight his grandmother even more. When she finished laughing, she explained to John what daddy did. He worked in a laboratory with chemicals and spent his time figuring out how to make medicines that would help people get better, among other things. _

_ “Potions!” John exclaimed, bouncing on grandma’s lap. She smiled at him, watching his precocious mind put this new information together. It clicked. _

_ “He’s like Merlin!” John said excitedly, his eyes bright as he considered how awesome it was to be a wizard. “Can daddy do magic?” _

The last streak of orange had been added and the colored picture was complete. Daddy was going to love this. John smiled smugly, then his face clouded as he thought of Grandma. He’d gotten the coloring book last week for his 6th birthday. The next day, Grandma went to the hospital. No one said much to him about her but he could tell it was bad. Maybe he should give her the picture. It might make her feel better.

John chewed on his bottom lip while contemplating his problem. Daddy would be home very soon and he may not see Grandma for a couple of days, but he just knew that if he could give her a pretty picture like this, it would help her feel better and remember to fight. His face cleared as he figured out the solution. He would give this one to Daddy since he would be home soon and make another one to take to Grandma at their next visit. With that decided, John stood up just as the door opened and his father walked in.

“Daddy!” he shouted, excited. Still clutching the crayon, John ran towards his father to give him a big hug.

Almost immediately, his father shouted, “STOP!!” putting a hand up, as if to fend him off. John froze in shock, his eyes wide. He’d been in trouble before, had his father yell at him but never like that, in a voice that seemed to be saying so much more than the simple word conveyed. Something stirred in the pit of his stomach and John held his breath, waiting to see what would happen. His mother came into the living room from the kitchen, the scent of some delicious supper following behind her through the door. Her steps faltered as she looked intensely at his father.

“Did you get it?” she whispered, a look of dread on her face. His father nodded curtly, his face grim. Setting down his briefcase, he pulled out a folded paper from his inner jacket pocket and handed it to her. She glanced at John briefly before slowly opening the folded paper and reading it. John heard his mother’s sharp intake of breath and watched as she seemed to read over the page several times before her hands dropped in front of her, still clutching the paper.

When he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, John started breathing as quietly as possible, still hoping he wouldn’t attract his parents’ attention. This was huge, whatever it was, and very bad. John could tell that is was bad by the ugly feeling in his stomach. Neither of his parents would look at him. His mother was staring at a point on the wall behind him and father was staring at her.

John looked back and forth between his two parents, trying to put it all together without enough information. Something was wrong. Something was wrong with _him_. A scary thought struck him–what if he was sick? His father worked making medicine for sick people. What if John had a sickness that couldn’t be cured? What if he could make other people sick by touching them? That would explain why his father had yelled at him when he came home. Then the scariest thought of all hit him– _what if he couldn’t ever touch his parents again_?

His heart began to race uncomfortably and his breathing became shallow. “Mommy?” he whispered timidly.

His father just looked at him sharply and turned back to his mother, putting his arm around her shoulders.

“Could this...” His mother faltered, then cleared her throat and started again, stronger, “Could this test be...wrong?” she ended in a whisper, tears filling her eyes.

His father shook his head firmly and said a terse, “No,” his jaw clenching as he looked over the top of his wife’s head. “The genes don’t lie. The test is accurate, as well. We’ve performed it on a number of proven cases. Once we recognized that it was paternal, it didn’t take long to produce a method for determining whether a man carried the gene or not. I definitely carry...”

But she never let him finish his statement. John flinched as his mother raised her fist and hit his father on the chest. Then again with the other fist, the crumpled paper barely missing his father’s chin. She kept hitting him over and over and yelling at him all the while.

“Make it go away! Fix it! This is what you do at work all day–research this _problem_...” she spat out the word “problem” as if it tasted bad, “...and figure out how to fix it. So FIX IT!!” She screamed the last so loudly that John involuntarily stepped back, flinching again, his little stomach tying into knots. His father grabbed his mother’s hands, finally stopping her from hitting him more.

“We’re working on it!” he said, still struggling a little with John’s mother as she tried to strike him again with her fists. “But there’s nothing we _can_ do right now. There are at least four facilities worldwide working on this and ours is just one of them. We’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Eventually,” she hissed at his father, her eyes narrowed in anger. “Eventually is too late. We’re already stuck with _that_!” she said wildly, vaguely waving her hand toward John. John caught his breath and held it again. Not understanding what his mother was saying, he glanced back fearfully, half-expecting to see some kind of monster behind him. There was nothing there but the wall. What if the monster were inside of him? He felt the darkness inside stir again, something black and cold and scary.

Shivering, he turned back as he heard his mother wail, “We’ll never have a normal child, will we?!” before collapsing into his father’s arms, sobbing.

His father finally looked at him and John felt like he’d been punched in the gut. The look on his father’s face was anger, disgust, and...fear? As if John had suddenly turned into that ferocious dragon and would start spitting fire at them at any moment. As if John was the monster.

John stood transfixed, his eyes still wide, heart pounding and breath ragged. His father turned away and led his mother from the living room and down the hall, neither of them looking back even once.

The flame orange crayon dropped to the ground and rolled across the floor, coming to rest gently beside a crumpled up piece of paper.

* * *

** A/N ** : I've got the greatest betas ever!! Thanks to **Calibama** and **schwimmschik** for making me look good.

** Disclaimer ** : As I matter of fact, I _do_ own X-men. And little gnomes come and dance in my room every night by the light of the moon. Dance, little gnomes, dance.


	2. Part II: The Shed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where we find out how crappy life can be when your parents know you're a mutant and they can't stand mutants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should mention that the romances I listed are NOT for main characters. They're established (or in Bobby/Rogue's case, semi-established) romances already in play and a couple of OC romances that will come up. This first story doesn't have any specific Pyro romances planned, though I am planning one for the second story in the series.

**Part II: The Shed**

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort  
** quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**shed**  
n. a slight structure built for shelter or storage  
v. to cause (blood) to flow by cutting or wounding; to rid oneself of temporarily or permanently as superfluous or unwanted

* * *

_Nine Years Old  
_

The man sat on the couch staring at a blank television screen. He hadn't bothered to turn it on. There never seemed to be anything worth watching on TV anymore, anyway and he was too wrapped up in his own concerns to find interest in whatever the media would spew at him that night.

He wasn't a tall man, or particularly muscular but there was a look of strength and a hardness to his face caused by his perceived unfairness of life's twists and turns. He was still good-looking, though, with dark brown hair, deep green eyes and full lips, but his face seemed to wear a perpetual look of dissatisfaction and anger. This hadn't always been the case.

He'd been happy once, young and ambitious, looking forward to a life full of promise. He'd had a beautiful wife who loved him and he was slowly working his way into a very successful career. His wife had given him a strong baby...boy...

The man's eyes narrowed and he took another drink from the half-empty whiskey bottle before slamming it down loudly on the end table. His lips twisted into a snarl as he kicked out violently with **h** is left foot, catching the leg of the coffee table and sending it skidding across the carpet. A stack of unread newspapers cascaded to the floor. The man expelled a breath and leaned forward, dropping his head into his hands with a groan.

How had it gotten this bad? But he knew the answer already–it was that damn mutant project. When he'd first started working for Jameson Industries, he'd worked on _normal_ research projects–medicines and the like. The Special Division opened up a year later. Its top secret projects were assigned to the most elite researchers in the company.

When he'd finally made it four years later, he'd been proud and excited never realizing that it would lead to his downfall. They'd gotten his mother-in-law to watch their two-year-old and went out for a celebratory dinner. Life had been good.

He'd loved working in the Special Division. Their focus was almost entirely mutant-related genetic and bio-research and completely classified. He'd admittedly had concerns when he first transferred to the division and found out that they used live subjects in many of their projects. He found out later that quite a few researchers felt the same way their first week or two. Until they actually saw some of the terrifying abilities these creatures had. Some of them didn't even _look_ human.

Any moral qualms he'd had disappeared pretty quickly one day while watching one of the younger subjects–a young man who mostly looked human but could grow extra body parts at will. The mutant called himself Hydra. There was no way he could fully describe the disgust he felt as he watched Hydra grow an extra pair of arms and start strangling one of the guards. The mutant had some amazing healing abilities and it usually took a bullet to the head to stop him. That's when he'd realized that they weren't human at all.

He became completely dedicated to working on the mutant projects he was given. He felt like he was really doing his part to help figure out how to deal with the ever-burgeoning mutant problem. He felt like he was doing something to keep the future safe for his family...

The man scrubbed his face, as if trying to wash away the memories. Leaning back, he grabbed the half-empty whiskey bottle, taking another drink and wondering if he should go get the boy out of the shed yet. He set the bottle on his thigh and rested his head on the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about the boy in the shed out back.

The kid kind of reminded him of himself at times. Brown eyes like his mother but, other than that, he mostly looked like his father. Same intelligence, too, but the boy was much more of a smart-ass than he'd ever been. He'd been serious at that age, interested in learning and wanting to make the most of his education. The boy was stubborn (okay, he probably got that from his father, too), disobedient, and completely uninterested in school.

Sometimes the man would look at the boy and imagine him performing any number of horrifying things that he'd witnessed the mutant subjects at work doing. That's when he'd find himself dragging the kid out to the shed and locking him in. It was as much to protect the boy as it was to punish him. At least that's what the man told himself when he thought about it.

His position at work had only improved as he'd worked on project after project in the Special Division. Then he'd gotten another break. After being in there for eight months, he'd been assigned to one of their biggest projects–the Carrier Project. They were working on a method of determining when a human male carried the gene that caused mutation. The project came into being as soon as it was found that males carried the gene. They wanted be able to figure out in advance if someone were likely to have a child that was a mutant. He'd been excited by the possibilities of knowing this information and what kind of prevention could be used to reduce the possibilities of a child being born a mutant. Maybe even figure out a way to reverse the mutant gene in children already born with it.

The man threw himself wholeheartedly into the project and helped produce a number of important breakthroughs before it was finally considered a success. The initial tests had to be done on men who had already fathered mutants, so they could be sure the test worked properly. They'd used some volunteers who willingly allowed the testing to be done on their blood. But they'd also had to take some blood "donations" from unaware volunteers, not that this was a problem for a company with Jameson's resources and connections.

The company had decided, as soon as the Carrier Project was proven, that it would require all male employees to volunteer for testing. There wasn't a man there who seemed terribly concerned about this–no one wanted to believe that they might carry a gene that would mean their children were abnormal. In fact, only four men in total turned out to be carriers–-and one of them was the man himself. He'd actually worked on the very project that ended up destroying his life.

Unwilling to acknowledge his own part in ruining everything, the man easily transferred his anger and hatred outward–it was his son's fault for being a mutant; it was his company's fault for forcing everyone to undergo the testing; it was humanity's fault for evolving; but, mostly, it was his son's fault.

Then the unthinkable happened for Jameson Industries. While debates about mutant registration raged on in the public eye, the Carrier Project was shut down and the tests were put in deep storage. Apparently, someone had found out about the testing done on blood samples from several mutant's fathers without their permission. While the review board and even the government would turn a blind eye to using mutants as test subjects, they couldn't ignore the human rights issues brought up by non-mutants. Their biggest Special Division project was terminated. At the same time, the government, willing to humor the mutant-rights activists currently in favor, demanded a reduction in the use of mutant subjects at Jameson's facility. Even though it was all extremely classified, guaranteeing that very few people would ever hear even a rumor about these projects, the company complied, unwilling to tempt the government into shutting them down entirely.

Not that any of this mattered one bit to the man since he had been removed from the Special Division less than a month following his Carrier test. The company would never let him leave, with all that he'd been party to at their research facility, but he'd been slowly demoted to the most basic, limited research position available, next to the other three men who'd tested positive for the mutant gene. He might as well have been a janitor, as crappy as the projects were that he was assigned to after that.

The biggest problem, though, was that he knew...The man closed his eyes, a grim look on his face. He knew that as soon as his son started manifesting mutant powers, he would be picked up by the company, processed and turned into one of the few mutant subjects at the facility. The company had been told to limit, not terminate, their mutant experiments and they seemed to feel proprietary about the mutant children that their four employees had fathered.

He knew they'd take the boy and he knew what they'd do to him because he'd witnessed it first hand. Had even overseen some of the experiments. As disgusted as he felt about his own son being one of those mutant creatures, he just didn't think he could handle knowing the kinds of experiments they'd do on him when that day came.

* * *

There were exactly 30 ribs on each of the long walls. Well, "ribs" were what John called them because he didn't really know what the actual word for them was. The walls were metal on the interior of the shed and...well, ribbed with vertical lines like seams running up and down every four inches or so.

And the long walls had 30 ribs each. The short wall across from the door had 24 ribs and the wall with the door had 15 full ribs and 9 ribs over the door. No windows. The only light slipped through the crack under the door and another crack in the top back right corner where the roof didn't meet the walls properly. At night, the light was so dim it was almost suffocating. John had woken up on the hard concrete floor more than once in a state of panic because he couldn't see anything. That's when he'd first started carrying a lighter around. One that he'd stolen from his father who'd taken to smoking cigars a year ago, which turned out to be unpleasant for John in more ways than just having smoke blown in his face.

John was sitting in the back left corner of the shed, his knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them, flicking his lighter, **click** , on... _click_ , off… **click** , on… _click_ , off...It was winter and the shed was freezing cold. John had learned over the last three years that metal isn't much of an insulator. During the summer it was stifling hot in the shed; during winter, it was numbingly cold. John's biggest problem was that he didn't always think to dress properly for being stuck there which was okay during the summer when he could remove most of his clothing. But tonight he was shivering in the cold with a thin, long-sleeved shirt on and a pair of jeans. Not the warmest outfit in his closet.

**Click**... _click_ … **click** … _click_... **click** …

His mother and father had each handled differently the news of his "illness" (a term they'd quickly adopted when anyone asked if something was wrong) after his father had been tested at work. Where his father was angry, hurtful, and violent, his mother had completely lost her spark. She did everything automatically, efficiently but without really caring about it. She stopped speaking to John and hadn't touched him again after that evening when John's father brought home the test results. The only thing she said to him after that night was to tell him to do something–"Clean your room," "Clear the table," "Go Away!" Then she just wasn't there anymore.

_Click_ … **click** … _click_ … **click**...

It had been 3 years, 4 months since she'd left. She'd been at the school with him one day shortly after the school year started. He was six, just starting first grade, and she'd had to go to a conference with the principal to discuss his "behavioral problems" already. She'd sent him off to school the next morning and then packed and left. When he came home that night, she'd been gone. Every trace of her presence was erased from the house. Not just her personal belongings but family pictures, as well. John had been at a loss about what to do when he got home, so he hid in his room until his father got home, hoping he had misunderstood his mother's absence. His father had been stunned at first but quickly became livid and spent most of the night raging and blaming John for driving his mother away. His father's drinking started a couple of days later.

_Click_ … **click** … _click_ … **click** …

3 years 4 months...  
That was 40 months...  
1217 days...  
29,208 hours.

He'd never bothered to try and figure out how many minutes it had been since he'd last seen his mother. It's not like it really mattered, anyway, he just didn't have anything else to do out here but count seams in the metal walls and think.

_Click_ … **click** … _click_ … **click** …

John loved staring at the flame. It was bright, warm. His gaze lost focus as he imagined what it might be like to wrap himself in it. Would it warm him up? Make him feel like he did before his whole world ended? Make him feel like he used to when he sat in Grandma's lap, her arms wrapped around him while she told him a story about knights and …. He swallowed the pain that always accompanied thoughts of his grandmother. He missed her so much.

His grandmother had died shortly after his mother left. Not that he'd been allowed to see her again. They'd kept him from visiting her at all once they'd found out that he would probably grow up to be a mutant. John clenched his jaw, his gaze focusing on the flame again...as if being a mutant were contagious or something. He'd been left to wonder if his grandmother would have accepted him had she known. He liked to think she would have but the older he got, the more he doubted it.

He shut off the flame and jumped up, restlessly pacing to the door and back, angrily. It seemed liked the only thing he felt anymore was anger and pain. Pacing helped him burn off some of the rage he felt inside but the shed wasn't exactly roomy enough to do much pacing. Plus, once it got dark, he'd be stumbling over everything, something he knew from experience since he'd tried it a couple of times when he just couldn't sit still anymore. Shin bruises weren't exactly pleasant.

He stopped as he came to the back wall, staring blankly at the metal in the dim light. There was a wheelbarrow leaning up against the wall in the corner and a couple of dusty boxes with various partial cans of paint, left over from some house project long ago. John shivered in the cold. Dark and cold. Fucking dark and fucking cold. The rage inside suddenly welled up and he started kicking violently at the metal wall.

"Stupid...fucking...shed." Each word was punctuated with another kick.

"Stupid...fucking...mutant...crap...Stupid...fucking..." John gave a little sob as the anger drained away as quickly as it had overwhelmed him. "...father," he whispered as he hit the metal with the side of his fist and then leaned his head against the freezing wall, breath rasping. He stood there for a moment, eyes closed, catching his breath and then pushed himself away from the wall. He gave another half-sob, half-laugh as he saw the damage he'd done to the metal.

"Piece of shit shed," he whispered, looking at the multiple dents he'd made with his foot. It was so dark, he could barely see but the dents were obvious, even in that dim light. If his father saw the damage he'd done...John shivered, looking around the shed for something to put in front of the dents. He finally decided to move the stacked boxes of paint into the middle of the back wall, successfully covering up the damage. He didn't think his father would ever move those boxes. It wasn't like the old man did any kind of house upkeep anymore, anyway.

Moving back to his corner in the shed, John slid down the wall and drew his knees up again, resuming his earlier occupation.

**Click**... _click_ … **click** … _click_... **click** …

The weed eater flickered into view behind the flame. John's lips twisted into a sneer as he thought about how stupid it was to play with fire in a small shed full of gas-powered lawn equipment. But then he figured that if he managed to blow everything up, he'd be doing himself a favor.

His father was a mean drunk, which was saying something because he wasn't ever really nice to John anymore anyway. John seemed to be caught in the middle of his father's self-destructive cycle–-John's mother left, his father started drinking, his father took it out on John, the drinking degraded his work performance, he got in trouble at work, he started drinking more, he took it out on John...and so on. John figured it wouldn't be too long before his dad lost his job completely and dreaded the day his father would be cut loose and left to spend his days at home, waiting for his son to return from school each afternoon. It was bad enough dealing with dad in the evenings, John couldn't imagine coming home to him every day. Yeah, maybe blowing himself up would be better.

But he didn't really believe that. John liked breathing, he liked the idea of what life _could_ be and knew that if he could survive this, just bide his time until he could get out of here, then it'd be okay.

_Click_ … **click** … _click_ … **click** …

Christmas vacation. Dad's drinking was always worse when he didn't have to go to work. He'd start as soon as he got home from work and sometimes didn't stop until a day before he had to go back. John thought that at times his father would deliberately stay just sober enough to find reasons to punish John. The house isn't clean enough. Supper's not ready. The lawn's not mowed. His grades weren't good enough. He was late getting home. His mother left because of him...

But the upside was that his father sometimes drank himself into a stupor that left him incapable of thinking clearly or remembering. John liked those times because he could move pretty freely around the house then, eat what he wanted (when there was food), watch TV or just generally act like things were normal except for the drunken man sometimes sprawled across the couch or floor, mumbling to himself.

Even better was when his father drank himself unconscious. John would steal money from his father's wallet and leave–go eat, meet Jason at the video arcade and play until he had no money left, buy CD's or comics (he had a stash hidden in his room), or go to the movies. He didn't have a curfew those nights because his father never woke up before morning when he drank that hard.

_Click_ … **click** … _click_ … **click** …

He still had a twenty he snagged from his father's wallet yesterday. What could he do with it? Maybe get some new music–he'd been thinking of picking up that Gravity Kills CD that came out last year. He could do that and maybe catch a matinee with Jason.

_Click_ … **click** … _click_ … **click** …

John's thoughts turned to his closest friend, Jason. He was the perfect type of friend for John because he never asked questions and he never acted nosy about anything. Never commented about the bruises or marks he'd see when John's sleeve hiked up, never pressured John about being invited over to his house, never acted surprised or upset when John would suddenly look at his watch and then bolt from the arcade in a rush without even saying goodbye. He was just there when John was able to hang out and they talked about things that didn't matter much–-music, cars, schoolwork they should be doing, movies they'd seen, books or comics they'd read.

_Click_ … **click** … _click_ … **click** …

They'd met in first grade, both of them having to clean erasers after school one afternoon. John was never quite sure why Jason had taken to him but he didn't question it, either. They both liked similar things–-the same kinds of cars, same kinds of movies. Jason had quite a comic book collection that he introduced John to and he never seemed to mind sharing them. They both got in trouble regularly, although Jason never showed up the next day sporting new bruises or moving more stiffly than usual.

They'd grown into similar tastes, as well, although their opinions differed sometimes on some things–which car was the fastest; whether Die Hard 3 was as good as Die Hard 1 (Die Hard 1was definitely better because it had more explosions); which comic book hero was the best. They had good-natured arguments over these things but agreed readily on music and which movies to watch.

Jason was probably the only reason he stayed sane these days.

A growl of hunger in his stomach made John painfully aware that he'd been sitting that position too long. He stirred, shifting his butt and stretching his legs out. He wished again that he'd thought to wear a heavy sweater that morning. John sighed and lay down on the cold, concrete floor wrapping his arms around himself and bringing his knees up to his chest for warmth. The light was completely gone by this time, darkness pressing in from all sides. Maybe he should try to sleep.

Not even five minutes later, he was sitting up again, shivering, back pressed into the corner, flicking his lighter. **Click**... _click_ … **click** … _click_... **click** …

He hated the cold and the dark. He hated that he didn't think he would ever feel warm again. Not since his grandmother had died. It was like the cold darkness inside of him was consuming more and more each day and he couldn't escape it. It was like his soul was frozen and he thought that he would give anything he could to figure out how to warm it up again.

_Click_ … **click** … _click_... **click** …

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks again to **schwimmschik** who forced me to make this a better chapter! Thanks also for the review from **otterwarrior16**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned before, I'm working within the timeline of the first 3 movies and staying mostly canon-compliant. Since I originally had betas helping me when I originally published this on FF.net, I've left my beta thanks attached in recognition of their assistance.


	3. Part III: Trains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pyro finds out that there are people he can trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still pre-movieverse at this point. I think there are two more chapters before we get to the beginning of the first movie. This story won't actually focus much on what happens in the first or second movie because of how quickly both of those timelines move but chapters will obviously fit within those two movie timeframes.

**Part III: Trains**

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort**

quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**train**

_n._ an orderly succession ; accompanying or resultant circumstances : aftermath; a line of combustible material laid to lead fire to a charge; a connected line of railroad cars with or without a locomotive

_v._ to form by instruction, discipline, or drill; to teach so as to make fit, qualified, or proficient; to make prepared (as by exercise) for a test of skill; to aim at an object or objective

 

* * *

_Eleven Years Old_

 

"Hey."

"John! How _are_ you?"

"Ok. You?"

"Good." Pause. "You know I tried to call a few times..."

"Yeah. My dad's not real good with the message thing, ya know."

"Maybe _you_ should just call when you need to talk...or want to talk. Whatever. You know what I mean."

Silence.

"Sure."

An indiscernible feminine voice in the background.

"Hang on...What mom?" A laugh. "Nah. But Mark can fix your remote for you."

"Sorry bout that. Man, Mark brought his Dreamcast over with NFL 2K. It'd be great if you could..."

"Jason..." A sigh and then silence. "Listen, I gotta go. I'll catch ya later."

"Uh...okay." Pause. "Hey, John?"

"Yeah."

"Take care of yourself, okay?"

"Yeah...bye."

John pushed the "off" button on the phone and expelled a breath, leaning back against the wall behind his bed. He wasn't sure why he bothered calling Jason anymore. He rubbed his thumb rhythmically against the buttons on the phone, outlining each one, absentmindedly. Their friendship had devolved from weekly phone calls about their usual favorite topics into monosyllables and multiple interruptions by Jason's family or his new best friend, Mark.

_Mark_. John clenched his jaw and then suddenly threw the phone violently against the opposite wall causing a loud crash that seemed to shake the whole trailer.

"What the hell was that, boy!" came a slurred shout from the other room.

"Nothing!" John shouted back, angrily.

"If you broke something..." his father left the threat unfinished.

"Yeah? Get up off your drunk ass and come find out." John muttered as he slid off his bed and crossed the room in two steps to squat next to the phone.

Miraculously, it was undamaged. The lid to the battery compartment had popped off and batteries were scattered on the floor but everything else seemed to be fine. John put it all back together and watched the screen light up as the phone came back on. _Searching for base_... _Handset 1_. He released the breath he'd been holding, sneered at himself and got up to put the phone back on it's charger in the kitchen. The smell of cigar smoke and booze wafted in from the living room where his father was watching something violent on TV.

Back in his room, John flung himself on his bed, propping his back against the wall again with a slight grimace as he felt a bruise twinge. He slipped the lighter out of his pocket and started flicking it, staring at the flame and wondering how quickly the trailer would burn from only one point of ignition.

The stick tapped against each wooden slat as John ran it along the fence that bordered the sidewalk. His backpack was slung over his left shoulder and weighted down with school books and homework.

Tap...tap...tap...Mrs. Grueber's house...

It hadn't really been a bad day at all, although he'd almost played hooky that morning since he had an English test he didn't study for. But he'd done pretty well on the test, he'd only gotten in trouble once during the day (which might have been a personal record) and he'd managed to get that dickhead Michael suspended by framing him for a practical joke he'd played on Mr. Laynard that involved ants, rubber bands, and about 20 packets of honey. John grinned at the mental image of their teacher dancing rather frantically around his desk at the front of the room.

Tap...tap...tap...The Wallaces' house...

His eyes flicked to the neatly trimmed yard fronting an old, but well-kept house. It kinda reminded him of the house Jason lived in, except it wasn't nearly as big, of course. But it had the same well-kept look. The same kind of house he'd lived in until early last year.

John had never figured out how his father managed to keep his job while slowly falling apart. He got the impression that his father had been demoted as low as possible shortly after he'd tested positively as a carrier of the mutant gene. He didn't know why they didn't just fire him, although the rate of pay he was currently drawing probably wasn't much better than someone on unemployment. At least that's what his father claimed whenever he got his pay stub. They'd lost the suburban house and the luxury car, trading it in for a trailer home and some old beater that needed regular mechanical work done on it. New school and too far away from Jason to really remain friends. John had known as soon as his father told him they had to move that Jason would find a new best friend before too long...

"You're thinkin' too hard if it makes you scowl like that."

John jerked his head around in surprise, looking for the owner of the voice. There wasn't anyone in view but John was amazed to see that he'd passed three more houses and was only about a block from the trailer park. He was standing in front of Mr. Norman's house. Mr. Norman was known for being a weirdo and John had never spoken to the guy before. He wasn't actually sure he was talking to him now since he still couldn't see anyone. Puzzled, he scanned the yard again, even looking up at the roof of the house, just in case.

He heard a snort and then the voice was saying, "You'd think he was talkin' to a bird the way he's lookin' up at the sky. Down _here_ , junior."

His eyes dropped to the ground and then widened when he saw the old guy pinned under what he'd originally thought was some old, junky shelf ready for the dumpster. John's face settled into a look of disbelieving amusement.

"Nice place for a nap," he said with a smirk.

"Quit bein' a smart ass and help me get out from under here," Norman growled, pushing futilely against the shelf.

"Don't strain yourself, old man," John said, hopping over the short fence.

Dropping his backpack on the ground, he walked over to the prostrate man and grabbed the wood that he could now see was too wide to be a regular shelf. It was just wood, though, so he expected to easily lift it off the guy.

"What the...?!" John huffed, in surprise. "What the hell is this made out of? Cement?!"

"Aw, c'mon. A strapping, young feller like yourself...can't even move a little piece of wood like...this?" Norman grunted as he pushed up with John.

Together they managed to lift the wood enough for Norman to slide out. John dropped it quickly with a resounding thud.

"How did you...?" John started only to be cut off with a gruff "Don't ask!" from the older man. John shrugged and turned for his backpack.

"You ain't getting off that easy, boyo." Norman said to John's back.

John turned back, looking at Mr. Norman with a mixture of defiance and curiosity. The older man put out his hand. "Name's James Norman. You can call me Norman, though. Most people do. Thanks for the help, son."

John took the proffered hand, a little surprised. "John Allerdyce."

Norman looked him up and down and then raised an eyebrow. "I'm impressed you could even lift that thing. You're nothin' but skin and bones, boy."

John just shrugged again, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"What's it for?" he asked, pointing with his chin towards the rectangle of wood.

Norman didn't answer, just looked at him for a moment, assessing, then said, "Here, help me carry this inside."

John glanced at his backpack, considering, and then turned and squatted on one end of the wood, grabbing either side. Once Norman was set, they both lifted. John was relieved to find that it was much easier when they were sharing the weight more equally.

They carried it up the porch steps and set down one side. John balanced the wood as Norman opened the door and stepped inside to get something to hold the door open.

With the board upright, John could finally see where the extra weight came from. There was a metal frame attached to the underside, apparently strengthening the rectangle of wood. His curiosity was increasing by the minute. He just hoped it didn't turn out to be some lame explanation like Norman was planning on using it to stiffen his mattress. Or put legs on it and using for his dining room table. John smirked at the thought. And then lost his grin as his imagination turned to darker thoughts. Norman was known for being strange. What if he kidnapped people and kept them in the basement. Maybe this was some strange torture device...His thoughts were interrupted as Norman returned and picked up his end of the wood again. John quietly laughed at himself for being silly and picked up his end. Carrying the thing upright was a bit harder, but they managed to get it through the door and into the living room before needing to set it down again.

Norman disappeared again, to shut the front door and make sure the path was clear and all the appropriate doors were open. John braced the wood again, breathing heavily, and glanced around the room curiously. It looked like most living rooms did. There was a couch, an overstuffed chair, a television and various end tables scattered around the room. He saw a bookshelf against one wall with a detailed model of an F-14 fighter plane sitting on it, something he'd love to take a closer look at. Most of the tables had some sort of clutter on them–a pile of unopened mail sat on one small table near the door, magazines with picture of trains were strewn across the coffee table. What _was_ odd, in John's opinion, were the miniature figures and what looked like a toy house sitting on one table near the large chair.

His perusal of the living room was interrupted by Norman's return.

"Alright, we got a clear path," the older man said, rubbing his hands together and grabbing his end of the board again.

"Nice F-14," John commented, turning back to the wood frame. Norman snorted and then lifted and they started shuffling through the living room toward the back of the house.

"My son gave that to me for Christmas one year." There was a grunt as Norman accidently bumped into the doorjamb on his way through. "I make model trains and I guess he didn't think there was a difference." He gave a breathy chuckle.

They'd moved into the kitchen now and Norman was angling them toward an open door at the back with a sickly yellow light feebly brightening the dark doorway.

"We have to negotiate some stairs, so watch your step."

"Stairs!" John breathed, ending in what sounded embarrassingly like a squeak to his own ears. He cleared his throat and tried to sound casual, "Where does that lead?"

Norman peeked around the wood, looking at John curiously. "The basement."

John's heart lurched and he stopped dead, indecisive. Norman's look changed from curiosity to amusement, ending in a wicked grin.

"Sure. That's where I have the bodies, of course." He laughed heartily at John's wide-eyed expression of alarm.

John's eyes narrowed and he could feel the heat creeping up his neck into his face as Norman dropped the wood frame and placed a hand on the wall to hold himself up, shaking with hilarity.

John dropped his end of the frame with a loud thump, glaring daggers at his amused host. Crossing his arms, he said, "I'd like to see you get this downstairs by yourself."

"Alright. No need to get huffy, boyo." Still shaking with mirth, Norman wiped the tears from his eyes.

"I figure we're even now since you laughed at me outside. Sides, you shoulda seen the look on your face." Norman continued chuckling to himself as he picked up the wooden frame again.

John picked his end up again, trying to act irritated but feeling a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Norman's chuckle was contagious and this kind of reminded him of being with his grandmother. He hadn't felt this way in a long time.

The basement was truly awe-inspiring. It was like stepping into a miniature world. There were train tracks all around the room, running through miniature fields and villages, disappearing into tunnels and even some that rose up toward the ceiling to traverse the room suspended overhead. John immediately realized that the miniature figures and "toy" house from the living room were actually pieces of the fantastical world Norman had created in his basement.

He felt a sharp tug on the wood and realized he'd almost stopped completely to stare, open-mouthed, at the amazingly detailed scenes surrounding him. Here was a mountainside covering the wall, rising up halfway to the ceiling. A mountain goat was perched on a ledge, munching on some grass and a couple of deer stood by a stream near the train track, poised for flight as they looked up, startled by some unseen intrusion. Over there was a miniature playground with several little children swinging and climbing on the monkey bars. One little boy had fallen and skinned his knee, his mother bending over to comfort him. The train track ran behind the park, like a thread that tied everything together. John was stunned at the details he could see from the middle of the room and hoped he got the chance to look at everything up close before leaving.

They passed from the miniature world into a spacious workshop, setting the wood on the cement floor with the metal frame down. They both stepped back, John looking around curiously. There were work tables along one wall with various tools and half-finished projects strewn across the surfaces. One section of the workshop was for wood working, various tools and saws ready for use. A short stack of wood panels lay next to the table saw. John was amazed at how large the basement was and felt a pang of embarrassment again in thinking that Norman might have been some kind of serial killer.

"Yep, I got 427 bodies down here," Norman said with a chuckle. John grinned at him, staring at the various projects and itching to go back to the train room and examine everything. Norman's chuckle turned into a smile, a speculative look reaching his eyes. He led the way back into the train room, saying, "I always feel like Gulliver when I step into this room."

At John's quizzical look, Norman asked, surprised," You've never heard of Gulliver's Travels?"

The next hour and a half were spent looking over the miniature scenes and watching the trains run as Norman alternated between commentary on his trains and their settings and condensed versions of the stories from Gullivers Travels. When Norman invited John to stay for supper, he reluctantly admitted he should get home, knowing he was probably already in trouble with his father.

Norman grunted. "Well, guess I'll have to make you body number 428 then."

John just rolled his eyes, replying, "I've got lots of homework to do tonight," trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Heck, he expected anything Norman was cooking would be better than the tuna mac or canned soup he'd find waiting at home. Or the fist, belt, and raised voice.

"I tell ya what," Norman said. "I'll let you leave now but you have to promise to come back and help me with this project."

John's heart leapt at the idea of coming back, but he crossed his arms and tried to look casual. "You haven't even told me what the project is," he said with a defiant smirk.

Norman gave him a lopsided grin and began ushering him to the door. "Come back tomorrow and you'll see."

Ain't nothing gonna keep me away, John promised himself. The realization that he was actually looking forward to tomorrow caught him by surprise. He couldn't remember the last time he'd anticipated getting up the next day.

" _Doll_ house?! Dollhouse." John was shocked and a little disappointed. He had been sure that Norman was making another train scene and that he might be able to help him build it. Why the heck would Norman want a _doll_ house? And it was so... _big_.

They were in the kitchen sharing a plate of cookies that had been given to Norman by Mrs. Grueber from down the road. John was sitting at the kitchen table, his backpack on the floor at his feet, and his third cookie in hand. Norman was leaning against the counter, watching the emotions chase across John's face with mild amusement–disappointment and puzzlement seemed to win.

"I promised my granddaughter for years that I would make her one but never seemed to find the time. So I'm making the time now."

"Why doesn't _she_ help you with it?" Strangely enough, John wished he hadn't asked the question as soon as it left his mouth. He pictured some girl fumbling around in the workshop, not liking the idea at all.

It was the first time John had ever seen Norman look completely serious, with a hint of sadness brushing his features.

"My son and granddaughter were killed in a car wreck last year. She'd just turned eleven." Norman sighed, looking away from John for a moment, silent. John looked down, feeling his gut wrench. He didn't know why the thought occurred but he almost wished he could trade places with her. She had someone who cared for her and missed her and he didn't guess he would ever have that–woulda been better if he'd been the one who'd died instead of Norman's granddaughter. Before his mutation kicked in...

"What was her name?" John asked quietly.

"Valerie." Norman smiled fondly. "She had a fiery temperament. And stubborn...she wouldn't back down from anything. And she loved to dance–nothing formal like ballet, just dance to whatever that crappy music is you kids listen to these days. I did get to teach her how to jitterbug, though." His smiled widened briefly before turning grim. "They were coming over for the holidays. Kind of a silly thing we did, I suppose, since they lived just outside of the city here. But they'd come out every year during Christmas time and stay for the week as if they were visiting from out of town or something. Something was different this year, though–I got the impression that Mark wanted to discuss something with me." Norman paused a moment, lost in thought, and then shook his head to clear it.

"They never made it this time. They didn't even make it to the city limits–some drunk driver ran them off the road into a ravine. The car flipped and caught on fire somehow." Norman's face hardened. "Hit and run...they never caught the son-of-a-bitch, either, just found an empty bottle near the side of the road."

John watched Norman almost longingly, both of them silent, seeing things the other couldn't.

Then Norman suddenly shook it off and returned to his usual playful personality, pulling out the plans he had for the dollhouse and talking John through the various aspects of the project. It seemed like a huge job to John and Norman was expecting it to take at least six or seven months to finish.

It took one year total. John spent every chance he could with Norman helping him cut wood, glue, nail, paint, decorate and finally furnish the dollhouse that would be a dream house for any little girl's doll family. Sometimes they'd talk while they worked and sometimes they'd both be concentrating so carefully on their jobs that silence would reign.

Norman was a fountain of information and not selfish in the least about sharing it. His stories about being a soldier in WWII kept John's rapt attention until Norman would remind him good-humoredly to get back to work. Norman's ability to spin a yarn was captivating and John frequently found himself forgetting the miniature piece he was working on in favor of listening to his host instead.

But Norman didn't confine himself to his own personal stories. He frequently shared about books he was reading or ones that he'd read. John was sure that Norman chose some of the books he shared about to make a point with him about his life, although he didn't always catch on to what Norman might be getting at.

The one story that made a big impression with John was some Russian guy who'd spent years imprisoned in his own country for some fabricated crime. He'd written page upon page about what it was like being imprisoned there and how awful the conditions were, how unfair the system was, and how the people just resigned themselves to their fate with barely a whimper.

Some of the stories Norman shared from those books made John's blood run cold yet angered him at the same time. No one should be treated that way–just because the people in power _could_ do it didn't give them right _to_ do it. The Russian guy at the beginning of one of his books stated that he believed they'd deserved what they got because they didn't fight back when the government came for them. That quote alone kept John silent for ages, when Norman shared it, mulling over the concept.

Plus, John figured he understood where Norman was coming from when he shared about the Russian author. He already suspected that Norman knew his home life wasn't exactly happy, although he never asked about it or even brought it up. The previous night hadn't been a quiet one at home for John and he'd gone to school that day wearing a long-sleeved shirt even though it was late Spring and the weather was getting rather warm.

John was working on the wallpaper in one of the upper bedrooms–he had small hands, thin fingers, and could more easily work in the smaller spaces toward the back of the house. He had pushed his sleeve up to get it out of the way, not even thinking about the row of finger-shaped bruises exposed along his forearm. When Norman asked for the glue, John didn't even hesitate, handing him the bottle without looking up from the wallpaper project. It wasn't until he reached his arm back inside the house and saw the bruises that he felt a moment of panic. He glanced toward Norman, hoping he hadn't noticed anything and barely caught the hardened look on Norman's face before the older man turned back toward his own project.

Norman had talked about the Russian dude that evening.

By the time they really got into decorating the dollhouse, even Mrs. Grueber got involved. She'd come over one evening just before suppertime with some heavenly-smelling casserole that both Norman and John had wolfed down with great pleasure. They'd taken her to see the dollhouse, both feeling immensely proud of the paint job they'd done in the various rooms.

The house itself was a two-story painted on the outside in a pale yellow with white trim. Norman said that Valerie's favorite color had been yellow. He also said it was a Victorian home, which meant practically nothing to John, but seemed to delight Mrs. Grueber. She oohed and aahed over all the little details she could find on the exterior of the house–complimenting them on the roof shingles (each one painstakingly applied individually), and almost cooing over the ivy climbing up one of the side walls onto the roof. She approved of their flower bed plans along the front porch which they hadn't added yet.

But when they brought her around to the open back of the house, Mrs. Grueber had shrieked in horror, immediately scolding them for choosing such an unappetizing color for the kitchen and for using "clashing" patterns on the curtains and wallpaper in the living room. John and Norman just looked at each other and shrugged, both rather lost as to how patterns could clash.

She'd taken control of their decorating efforts from that point forward, making them redo the paint in several rooms, the wallpaper in one room, and making new curtains herself for the whole house, matching the colors and patterns appropriately for each room. She also reviewed their furniture plans, making sure they added in some obvious items not initially included–a vanity in the master bedroom, various plants throughout the house, and there should be a piano in the living room, of course.

When John's twelfth birthday came around in June, Mrs. Grueber had been coming over almost as regularly as John. He found the flirtation between Norman and Mrs. Grueber amusing and never failed to tease his friend about it when she wasn't there. But Norman was as feisty as John and gave back as good as he got. Their banter usually entertained Mrs. Grueber who frequently pretended that she found it all very childish but could never completely hide her amusement.

John's normal birthday plans included avoiding his father as much as possible in the hopes that it would be the one day of the year he wouldn't get any new bruises. This year was different. He had someplace to go where he'd be safe and actually enjoy himself. But he wasn't expecting a birthday celebration.

He hesitated in the doorway of Norman's kitchen, surprised. Both Norman and Mrs. Grueber were watching him expectantly. He blinked rapidly, swallowing a lump in his throat as he took in the birthday cake, presents, and balloons tied to the chairs. The last time someone had thrown him a birthday party was when he was six. It was a little overwhelming.

He dropped his backpack and left the room with a curt "Gotta go to the bathroom." Norman and Mrs. Grueber exchanged looks as he disappeared and then patiently waited for him to return, making small talk while he was gone. When he returned, Mrs. Grueber fussed over settling him into the "chair of honor," as Norman had dubbed it, and then made a show of lighting his candles on the cake. Both adults ignored his red-rimmed eyes and the way he avoided looking at them.

The cake was delicious and by the time John was handed the first present, he was back to his cocky self, bantering with Norman about their age difference and how rustic life must have been when Norman was twelve.

Mrs Grueber's present to John was a model airplane kit for a P-40 Tiger Shark. The plane was a WWII fighter with a shark's head design on the nose of the plane. John was ready to open it right then but Norman recommended he wait until they could take it downstairs and set it up or he might lose the small parts that were likely included. Mrs. Grueber gave John a quick hug, sneaking a kiss on the top of his head that left him blushing.

Norman's present was a book. One from the Russian author, but a small one rather than the huge books they'd discussed previously. This one was called _One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich_ and Norman had inscribed a note to John inside the front cover:

_To John,_

_The grandson I never had. Try to remember that fighting doesn't always have to include violence._

_With the greatest affection,_

_Norman_

John was left speechless for a moment. Holding the book in his lap, he stared down at the inscription, running a finger over it as he read it for the third time. Mrs. Grueber made a show of clearing the plates from the table and cleaning up the dishes noisily at the sink while John battled for control. Finally, he cleared his throat and thanked Norman for the present.

Norman smiled at him and gave him a half-hug, knowing John wouldn't appreciate more than that. Mrs. Grueber shooed them down to the basement insisting she clean up by herself so the boys could start on the fighter plane model.

Their work time for the next four months, alternated between working on the fighter plane model and finishing the dollhouse. Some evenings, they would focus on one project or the other, some evenings they did a little work on both, and occasionally Mrs. Grueber would work on the dollhouse decorations while the boys worked on the fighter plane.

Two days before Halloween, the dollhouse was finally completed. They'd spent most of the evening fiddling with some decorations that were refusing to cooperate and fixing some trim in one of the bedrooms that didn't look quite right. It was 8:30 before they stepped back to enjoy their finished project. It was very satisfying to see the fully decorated and furnished dollhouse, knowing how much work and effort they'd all invested in the project.

The fighter plane model was being displayed on an upper shelf in the workroom, having been completed the week before. John was extremely proud of both projects, knowing how much he had put into them. He was still debating whether he'd take the plane model home with him or just ask Norman to hang onto it for him. He'd love to display it in his room as a reminder of what he could do but he knew that if his father saw it, he'd assume he'd stolen it or something and probably break it out of anger. It should probably stay with Norman, just to be safe. It didn't hurt that leaving the model there gave him an excuse for visiting.

Mrs. Grueber brought down the cupcakes she'd baked in celebration and they shared a victory snack, enjoying the feeling of success and rehashing various aspects of making the house trying to figure out what could have been done easier or better. Talk of the dollhouse slowly developed into ideas Norman had for future projects and gave John hope that he'd be welcome to help out with those projects, as well. By the time John realized he had better get home, it was already well after 9 p.m.

"You realize we gotta clean this mess up tomorrow, doncha, boyo?" Norman asked him as he slid his backpack over one shoulder. "Gotta get the workshop organized for the next project."

John threw a smile over his shoulder as he walked briskly out the door. "I'll be by after school," he called to Norman as he bolted down the sidewalk. He jumped the fence and headed home as quickly as he could, feeling exhilarated at their accomplishment and excited at the prospect of working with them on another project.

Mrs. Grueber reached the door as John was jumping the fence. She held up the little book for Norman to see.

"He forgot his birthday present."

Norman smiled, "Well, he _was_ pretty excited about finally finishing the dollhouse. Besides, he'll be back tomorrow."

He looked at her fondly, his smile faltering slightly as he noticed her troubled look. "Something wrong, Anna?"

She colored a little, looking uncomfortable. "I got a call from CPS today."

Norman's eyes narrowed, his smile gone. "Child Protection Services? Why?"

Anna hesitated for a moment. "I knew you didn't want to lose his trust by calling anyone, so I called. Last week."

" _Last_ week? And they already called you back?"

She nodded.

"And?" Norman looked like he was expecting bad news.

Anna sighed. "They said that they'd checked everything out, reviewed the situation and were satisfied that John was in a safe environment."

Norman's brows snapped together and his face looked positively thunderous. " _Safe_...?!" he cut off the rest, his jaw clenching.

"Why do you think they lied?" she asked quietly, worried.

Norman sighed, pulling her into his arms. "I don't know."

He held her tight, staring across the yard in the direction John had run, hoping he wasn't about to lose the boy to whatever was going on.


	4. Part IV: Flash Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything blows up for John when his mutation kicks in.

**Part IV: Flash Point**

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort**

quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**flash point**

the lowest temperature at which vapors above a volatile combustible substance ignite in air when exposed to flame; a point at which someone or something bursts suddenly into action or being

* * *

_Twelve Years Old_

William Allerdyce leaned against the edge of window, staring blindly at the dark trailer park outside. Defeat hung on his shoulders like a mantle. Looking at his watch again, he decided that John just wasn't going to make it home this time. It was well after 9 p.m. and he'd never been that late before. He glanced down at the pay stub clutched in his hand–a $335,000 automatic deposit into his account. He could do the math. It was essentially six years of pay at his old salary plus a little extra for what? Christmas bonuses? Mental trauma? He shrugged.

The huge sum was basically Jameson's severance package to him. He'd seen the other three carriers receive the same types of checks, as their children began to display their mutant abilities. Each carrier would receive a huge check, supposedly for years of "loyal" service, and then they would leave the company. Their children never left, though. Allerdyce knew. He knew that Jameson was just paying them all off to take their freak kids and use them in mutant experiments. As much as he hated his son for destroying his life, he couldn't let Jameson get ahold of him.

John's mutation hadn't manifested, yet, but apparently Jameson had decided not to wait this time. The last carrier to refuse Jameson's "severance package" had ended up dead and Allerdyce suspected he was just becoming too much of a liability. He was the last carrier left at work. Perhaps they were concerned he would get the same notions as the man who tried to protect his kid from the place. William Allerdyce smirked, for a moment, looking remarkably like his son. Jameson had no idea exactly what notions Allerdyce had about keeping his kid from them.

A movement outside caught his attention. The boy was running across the dusty trailer park toward their trailer. The anger started boiling inside William–he'd been worried about the kid and _the little brat was fine_! He dropped the check stub, walking toward the door, as John opened it.

His father slapped him, hard, as soon as he stepped inside the door, knocking him against the wall. John managed to catch himself against the trim on the dining room door to keep from hitting the ground, although his head was spinning. He refused to give his father the satisfaction of knocking him down completely. He let his backpack slide off his arm to the floor as he looked up at his dad from under his brow.

"Is that the best ya got, old man?" John sneered, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth as he straightened up against the wall. _He's_ not _going to ruin this night_ , John told himself. His father's jaw clenched and his brow drew together at his son's taunt.

"You're late," he bit out.

"Like it matters," John threw back at him, watching his father warily. His father didn't disappoint, striking him again in exactly the same spot.

"It _does_ matter," was the hissed response, the scent of whiskey almost overpowering him as his father leaned in close to John's ear. His head was still turned to the side from the blow. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his father's eyes close briefly, as if he were in pain.

"I thought they..." it was whispered so quietly that John wasn't sure he heard correctly. The meaning was lost, however, as his dad grabbed his shoulders roughly and started shaking him, his head thumping painfully against the wall with each jerk.

"You go to school. You come home. Period. You don't hang out with your friends. You don't stop at the video arcade. You don't stop at the 7-11 for a fucking stick of gum. DO...YOU...UNDERSTAND?" By this time, his father was yelling and shaking him so hard that John felt completely disoriented. He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping it would stop soon.

His father gave him one final shove and then moved away. The intense relief made his knees buckle but he caught himself against the wall and slowly opened his eyes, blinking to clear them.

His father was walking toward the cigar that was smoldering in the ashtray on the end table. John's heart thumped painfully as he watched his father turn back from the table, cigar in hand. He was rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, staring at the burning tip as if contemplating its purpose. John stood pressed against the wall, trembling with repressed emotion, as his father crossed the floor toward him.

He felt a spike of fear as his dad reached him, staring at the cigar. The tip was glowing red, a reminder of the angry mark it would leave behind after his father applied it to his skin. John stared at the red tip, imagined that he could sense it inside him, _feel_ it, make it grow into a flame...

It was as if time had slowed down. His father was watching him stare at the cigar. His eyes followed John's gaze to the cigar tip and then widened. The ember ignited. A small flame rose up, almost gently, until it was a mere 3 inches tall. John was mesmerized, wondering if he were imagining this or if he were actually controlling the fire.

Then everything began moving normally again. His father jerked back, tossing the cigar away from him and stomping on it somewhat frantically.

John tore his eyes away from the cigar and slowly looked up at his father. This was the moment they'd both been expecting and dreading for the past six years. Despite everything that had happened, John found himself wondering what his father's reaction would be now that it was real, finally. His eyes flicked back to the cigar. The tip looked black with no visible embers but he could still feel a tug of power inside him from it.

He didn't even see his father strike this time, the blow knocking him flat on the ground and stunning him for a moment. He could hear movement behind him, though. Wanting to prepare himself, he struggled to his hands and knees, looking back in time to see his father rip an electrical cord off a lamp and yank it out of the wall.

He could hear Norman's voice in the back of his mind telling him "They deserved it because they didn't fight back."

"Not...anymore!" John panted.

He pushed himself to his knees as his father reached him and lifted his chin, looking into his father's eyes defiantly. Before John could even reach for the cord, his father was wrapping it around his neck, pulling it tight. The look on his dad's face was chilling. Devoid of anger and fear, it was a mask of resignation–as if his father had realized that he had no other options.

"It's better this way," he heard his dad murmur, almost gently.

John scrabbled against his dad's hands, scratching and struggling to get his feet under him so he could kick out. Fighting for air desperately, his mind reached out for the cigar ember. As his vision started to dim, the spark inside him roared to life and John suddenly found himself on the floor again, coughing and sucking in jerky breaths.

He looked up as his vision began to clear, searching for his father again and trying to make sense of what happened. The roar of the fire was almost deafening but there was another sound John could hear that made his blood run cold. A horrifying screaming coming from the heart of the flames.

John caught his breath when he finally saw his dad–or what he assumed was his dad. A figure completely engulfed in flames flailed around on the floor near his father's chair. The scream was coming from the figure. He watched in morbid fascination as the figure stopped flopping and lay on the floor twitching, the horrible screaming sound finally stopping. He swallowed hard before looking around him at the growing fire.

The flames had spread through much of the living room and were heading down the hallway toward his father's room. With a jolt, John realized that, despite the growing flames and smoke, the air around him was clear and comfortable.

The power raging inside him suddenly felt exhilarating and he pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the bruises and stiffness. Curious, he reached out his hand toward the flames in front of him and coaxed them along the wall until they covered the front door.

He lifted his hand up, flexing it and staring in fascination, as if it were the source of control. But he knew better. He could sense the flames inside him, _feel_ the fire as if it were part of him. As if it had always been there and always belonged to him.

The feeling was intoxicating and he waved his other hand, spreading the fire across the other side of the trailer. He turned around and lifted both arms, willing the flames to grow and spread out further, wanting them to destroy all the hateful memories he had of this place.

Sirens sounded in the distance, moving closer. He could still feel the fire behind him but he was so wrapped up in the joy of being in control for once that he didn't notice the flames creeping closer.

The realization came when he felt a blast of heat against his back. John looked around, shock slowly stealing over him as he saw just how out of control the fire had gotten. He thought of the twins next door and Mrs. Bower two trailers down and was relieved to hear the sirens pull up out front.

The flames were so intense, John couldn't even see his father's body anymore. He needed to get out. He put out his hand in the direction of the door and could again feel the pull of fire calling to him. This time he willed it to separate and make a path. But fatigue was starting to set in and John was finding that taming the flame was much more difficult than simply encouraging such a powerful force to fulfill its natural purpose. He refocused his mind, straining to make the fire obey him. Finally, his muscles trembling, he could see the flames in front of him dying out and leaving a path.

He stumbled out of the trailer, barely stepping off the porch before it collapsed. It was almost as loud outside as it had been inside. Three firemen near the front door froze as soon as John stepped out. He knew they realized what he was but he just didn't care. The nausea hit him like a brick and he dropped to his knees, wretching and shaking violently. The roar of the fire behind him was dying down. John could still feel the pull of power inside him but he was too exhausted to even think about it.

A light breeze dried some of the hair plastered against his face. He shivered, missing the feeling of warmth from the surrounding flames. People were hustling around, carrying equipment and shouting. John vaguely wondered if any of the other trailers had caught fire, hoping they hadn't but too weak to find out.

Someone finally seemed to realize he needed help because a blanket settled over him and he wrapped it around himself thankfully, shaking uncontrollably. He felt someone pick him up, thought he heard someone telling him to "hang in there, boyo," and felt like crying because it made him think of Norman. He was too tired to cry though and as the person carried him across the smoky trailer park, he slipped into unconsciousness before they reached the waiting ambulance.

An unremarkable black car sat parked across the street from the trailer park, two houses down. The two men inside impassively watched the hustle of firefighters, EMS checking people over, and the small crowd of nosy neighbors at the gate. One of the men held a cell phone to his ear.

"No, sir. Fire Department's already here and EMS. Yes, I would guess his power _is_ fire related. Not sure but it looks like he's being sent to the hospital. It definitely is their trailer, sir. Nope, not yet. Will do."

The other man looked at him with a question on his face.

"We're to verify the carrier's status."

"And the target?"

"He's going to be tied up in the system for now. There'll be time."

They watched as an ambulance pulled out of the trailer park and headed back toward the freeway, sirens howling and lights flashing.

* * *

 **A/N** : Thanks again to trovia for helping me refine things. And thanks for the awesome reviews!


	5. Part V: Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pyro is stuck in the hospital and alternates between wondering why Norman doesn't come get him and why he doesn't have a mutation that he can use to escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's a bit of chapter dump since I actually had 10 chapters done already for this fic. Future chapters, starting with 11, won't be posted as quickly.

**Part V: Alone**

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort**

quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**alone**

separated from others; isolated; exclusive of anyone or anything else

 

* * *

_12 Years Old_

 

Everything was a blur the week after he'd killed his father. He'd woken up alone in the hospital and after two days of anticipation, decided that it had been wishful thinking that Norman had carried him to the ambulance. Wishful thinking that he'd show up at the hospital.

His first mistake was waiting to get better. He should've slipped out the first chance he got, however he could. Initially, they'd just posted a policeman outside his door but he'd woken on the second morning to find restraints on his wrists, securing him to the bed and limiting his movement.

Infuriated and scared, he tugged uselessly at the padded cuffs.

A plainclothes detective showed up the following afternoon to ask him some questions about the fire. The questions had been surprisingly innocuous, skirting the main event as if he hadn't actually killed someone two nights ago. The cop didn't press him about the bruising on his face or around his neck. When he'd asked, John pointedly stared at the ceiling, not saying a word and the policeman had moved on to another loaded question.

"Ok, tell me about the fire. How did it start?"

"He dropped a cigar."

The pen froze over the small notebook for a moment before scratching across the page again.

"Was he drunk?"

John just shrugged and looked toward the window, wishing the cop were gone. He heard a sigh and the sound of pages flipping, then silence.

"This'll be a lot easier if you cooperate a little more."

John actually snorted at that, turning a disbelieving look on the detective. He wanted to yell, 'Easier?! How could _any_ of this be easier?' He bit his tongue, instead, returning his attention to the ceiling again, staring at it as if it held the answers to life itself on its stained and pitted tiles.

"Is there anyone else? Another family member? Your...mother? Someone to take care of you?"

John felt a pang at the question, thinking of his mother, then Norman. "No." He closed his eyes, trying to keep his breathing even and twisted his wrists in the restraints, testing them...again.

"I can't help you if you won't give me anything."

Silence.

"We know what you are. A couple of firemen gave statements."

Silence.

"Orphanage is out. No one's gonna adopt you and the orphanage won't have the...facilities to...take care of you."

"Control me, you mean!" John hissed, eyes flying open and flashing angrily at the cop.

For the first time since the detective had arrived, John took a good look at him. He was probably in his mid-thirties with short brown hair, a rather bland-looking face and kind eyes. He didn't look unsympathetic. John felt a little spark of hope.

"Let me go, then." John said quietly, almost pleading. The detective looked sad.

"You're 12 years old. No one's letting you go anywhere by yourself." It was a statement and John could tell there was no room for debate in the cop's mind. The hope died and he turned back to the ceiling, stubbornly ignoring the detective again.

"It's a debate between a juvenile detention center and the 7th floor here." There was a moment of silence as the detective let his statement sink in. "You know what's on the 7th floor here, don't you?" He asked quietly.

John shivered. _Of course_ he knew about the 7th floor. They'd made jokes about it at school since he was in third grade–instead of telling someone they were crazy, it was "you belong on the 7th floor Memorial." The psych ward. For nut cases. They'd lock him up and forget about him. He gave the cop a panicked look.

The detective rubbed his eyes tiredly and sighed again. "Look, I'm sure it's a difficult thing to talk about and I can only guess how this all came about." His eyes flicked to John's neck before continuing. "I get that you don't want to talk to me and that's fine, but there's a psychiatrist coming in tomorrow to see you. I really suggest you think hard about actually talking to her when she shows up."

John nodded, blinking back tears and shifting his eyes away from the cop. He heard a soft "Hey!" and looked up at the man next to his bed.

"Just _talk_ to her and it'll be okay, I promise," the man said, earnestly, holding John's eyes a moment and nodding encouragingly. John nodded back, not trusting himself to speak.

The cop was all business again, snapping his little notebook closed and slipping it into a breast pocket before giving John another sympathetic look and heading out the door with a final nod.

Then there was nothing to do but wait. John hated waiting. He counted and recounted the ceiling tiles. Mentally connected the pits in the ceiling to produce abstract designs. Watched a couple of planes fly by outside the window.

Sometime in the middle of the afternoon, a nurse came in and turned on the TV. He ignored it in favor of wishing his mutation were more practical for a situation like this and wondering what powers would be most effective for breaking out. Anything to avoid thinking about the 7th floor.

He tried, again, to produce the fire himself, thinking he would jump out the fucking window if he could just get himself loose. He didn't even produce a spark and couldn't recapture the same internal feeling of power he'd had at the trailer. He was slowly becoming convinced that he'd never be able to repeat what he'd done, and that left him feeling even more depressed and afraid.

Sometime after supper, a nurse came in and fiddled with his IV. John barely paid attention, staring blankly at some sitcom on TV. When his eyelids grew heavy, he didn't think anything of it, just let go in relief and fell asleep.

He awoke to the sound of someone alternately screaming and sobbing loudly. His first thought was that another patient died in one of the nearby rooms but, while the sobbing sounded heartbreaking, the screaming was terrifying, sending a chill up his spine every time he heard it.

His eyelids felt glued shut and he rubbed them before forcing them open. White ceiling. What's new? He blinked groggily, then frowned. Something didn't seem right. He rolled to his side and pushed himself to a sitting position, shivering as his bare feet hit the cold tile floor.

He realized with a jolt that his hands weren't strapped down anymore, but then he took in his surroundings and felt panic creep in. He wasn't in a regular hospital room anymore. The bed he was on was more a prison-style bed–metal frame with attached springs and a thin mattress on it. It was placed in a corner of the room, bolted to the floor. There was no other furniture in the room, no windows. Just four walls of white-painted cinder block and a single metal door with a small round window.

"No...No...NO!"

He didn't even realize he was saying it out loud as he shoved himself off the bed and stumbled to the door. He tugged at it uselessly, rattling the doorknob.

"Hey!" He pounded on the door with the side of his fist, looking through the glass for anyone who would listen. A bloodcurdling scream was his only answer. "This is WRONG! He said I would talk to a psychiatrist first! HEY!"

Five minutes later, he turned and sank to the cold floor, his back against the door. He wrapped his arms around his knees, shivering. Alternately feeling hurt for believing the cop and berating himself for being so gullible, he sat on the floor and waited for his chance. The only thing he had left to believe was that he would find a way out.

 

* * *

 **A/N:** As usual, my beta **trovia** is beyond amazing in her edits and suggestions.


	6. Part VI: Blending In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the streets there's no one to trust, until he meets up with another mutant--someone playful and probably too trusting that takes him in.

**Part VI: Blending In**

Webster's Dictionary:

 **cold comfort**  
quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

 **blend**  
to mingle intimately or unobtrusively; to combine into an integrated whole; to produce a harmonious effect

 

* * *

_13 Years Old_

 

Cold, stale pizza. Dug out of a trash can. Yep, this was definitely the high life, John thought wryly, snagging a slice out of the pizza box before tossing the box back into the dumpster behind the pizzeria. When he'd escaped from the hospital in his home town, he'd headed straight for New York City, figuring he could get lost in the huge population there. He also thought there might be other mutants that he could hook up–surely fellow mutants wouldn't think of him as a freak. It hadn't taken John long to realize his mistake. Mutants living here were as wary of contact as he was and he'd never been accepted into any of the rather tenuous mutant clans that roamed the city.

Last night had been another bad night in a long run of bad nights. He'd been kicked out of yet another homeless shelter and was reduced to dumpster diving again for supper when he heard someone scream. Normally saving someone else's skin wasn't very high on his priority list but he'd had a crappy week (oh, who was he kidding, a crappy eight years). Maybe he'd have a reason to burn something.

He dropped the unappetizing slice of pizza and headed down the alley. There weren't any lights this deep in the maze of alleys behind the shops and restaurants that fronted the main thoroughfares but John wasn't sure what he would find ahead so he simply gripped his lighter in his hand without igniting it. The screaming had long since stopped but John could hear voices ahead, in another alley to the left of him. He flattened himself against the wall and peeked around the corner, hoping to see what was going on.

He wasn't disappointed. The street lights from a large cross street shone down into the alley on two ugly-looking men, both of whom seemed to be searching for something or someone.

"Heeere, little girly, come on out," one of them sing-songed as the other kicked an empty box with his boot. "We promise to be nice to you if you come out now and behave."

John couldn't see a girl hiding anywhere in the alley but he recognized, from long years of practice, one or two places a small person might be able to duck into and avoid being seen. Or maybe she'd managed to escape down another alley without being noticed. He turned his attention to the two hoodlums vainly searching the alley. They were both pretty muscular but on their way to being flabby like they couldn't be bothered to work out anymore. One guy was wearing a muscle shirt to show off the tattoos decorating both arms. The other was slightly shorter and completely bald.

John could feel a stir of excitement as he prepared to enter the alley, his lighter ready. Since he hadn't heard any sounds from the person they were searching for, he assumed the girl had managed to escape. Which meant there wouldn't be any witnesses.

"Looking for someone?" John asked, stepping out with a cocky grin on his face. The two men looked up in surprise which quickly turned to irritation when they saw the short, thin kid standing alone. They separated to opposite walls, flanking John and started moving toward him.

"Beggin' for trouble, junior?" Tattoo Man asked, flexing his hands and cracking his knuckles in the process. Baldy looked at John with a nasty smile on his face, as if anticipating giving him a good beating.

"You don't have any idea what trouble is," John replied, his grin turning into a smirk as he raised the lighter in front of him and flicked the spark wheel igniting a small flame. The two men looked baffled at first, glancing at each other and back at John again.

"Is that supposed to scare us?" Baldy asked with a laugh. He rolled his shoulders and then both men came at John from either side of the alley, expecting to bring him down quickly and take out their frustration on him from having lost their first target.

"Nope." John responded, eyes narrowing. He waited until they reached a spot about three feet from him then said, "But this will!" His right hand shot up, a huge flame bursting forth. The men were thrown back halfway down the alley to lie unmoving on the ground. John kept a flame in his hand as he cautiously moved toward them, unsure whether they were conscious or even alive. They were both badly burned, their clothes singed and smoking. John tilted his head as he looked at them dispassionately, rolling the ball of flame around on his hand as if doing a magic trick. He was debating whether he wanted to make a couple of funeral pyres here or just leave them to their fate. They didn't really deserve a hero's "burial" but they didn't strike him as warranting another chance at life, either.

Before he could make a decision, a flicker of motion to his left had him spinning around, crouched and ready to throw another flame at whatever might be attacking him. He froze as he realized that the little girl these men must have been chasing was standing in front of him, staring at the flame in his hand as if mesmerized. He glanced at the two men on the ground and then straightened and extinguished the flame, keeping his lighter in hand just in case. Warily, he watched the girl as she looked over at the two bodies lying on the filth-strewn street. She looked like she was a year younger than him, maybe 12. At best, he expected her to go into shock or pass out. At worst, she would start screaming bloody murder and have someone come running in a matter of minutes. Either way, his best bet would be to leave before he got caught in the middle of something he couldn't escape.

But he didn't always do the smart thing and he knew it. He found himself unwilling to run away. Who knows, maybe he was hoping that she would realize that he'd saved her and be grateful. Not that his intentions were to save her but she didn't need to know that. Maybe he was hoping to walk away from this with a friend, for once. As soon as the thought struck him, he came to himself. "Idiot," he muttered, and turned to head back the way he'd come, hopefully to disappear before she came to her senses and started calling him a murderer.

"Wait!" Her cry stopped him. He stood at the end of the alley, his shoulders hunched and his head down, waiting. "You saved me," she said quietly.

He turned his head, looking back at her warily. "Yeah." Then he turned fully, watching in surprise as she began blending in with the wall and trash behind her. He thought he could see the outline of her form for a moment and then he couldn't see her at all. He heard a soft, rustling sound in front of him and saw another flicker of movement that he couldn't pinpoint. Then she was standing directly in front of him, fully visible. He flinched back slightly as she appeared, then stood silently, watching her.

"Like a knight in shining armor," she said, with a warm smile on her face. "I'm Ivy," she announced, linking her arm through his and tugging him along the alley toward the lights and traffic on the main street. John kept waiting for the voice in the back of his head to tell him not be stupid but to run as far away from this person as possible, but it was notably absent and he allowed himself to be pulled onto St. Vincent street and down several blocks to the apartment where she lived with her brother, her constant stream of chatter barely penetrating his brain.

He couldn't help but feel extremely nervous. His year in New York had taught him that no one helps anyone else, even if you shared the freak gene and that if someone were being overly nice, there must be an ulterior motive behind it. But he couldn't reconcile anything manipulative with the seemingly very friendly and open person beside him talking his ear off. Ivy hadn't even taken a breath since they'd stepped onto the busy street, explaining to him about where they lived, how much her brother was going to like him (yeah, right), and how they had plenty of room for him ...

"You don't have a place to stay, do you?" Ivy asked. John shook his head numbly, starting to feel rather stupid about going along with this and suspecting he would regret it in the morning when he found himself drugged, nude and dumped in some alley missing every single thing he owned, which admittedly wasn't much.

Except, her brother Nikki hadn't taken to him quite as quickly as Ivy seemed to expect, being old enough to recognize a street kid and potential problem when he saw him. Which, funny enough, made John feel a little better about crashing at their place. One year later, he was still "crashing" at their place, working as partners with them on their "freelance" jobs and as good as family.

Yep, in retrospect, it ended up being one of the smartest things he'd ever done.

 

* * *

 **A/N:** Happy Holidays everyone! Short, I know, but I figured I'd get it out for you now. Again, big thanks to **trovia** for helping me fix the stuff that needs fixing.


	7. Blood and Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything goes to shit again, big surprise. This time, John doesn't expect to get out of it in one piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It had to end, otherwise there'd be no reason for John to go to Westchester. 
> 
> The John in the first move looked kind of preppyish, iirc, so my John is definitely more based off of Aaron Standord's portrayal. Actually, what really sparked this story originally was the scene in X-Men 2 when they were at Bobby's house and John was standing at their family portrait wall looking at the pictures. It seemed so obvious to me that they represented everything John never had.

**Part VI: Blood and Dragons**

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort**

quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**blood**

the fluid that circulates in the heart, arteries, capillaries, and veins of a vertebrate animal carrying nourishment and oxygen to and bringing away waste products from all parts of the body; the shedding of blood; the taking of life; relationship by descent from a common ancestor : kinship; blood regarded as the seat of the emotions

**dragon**

a mythical animal usually represented as a monstrous winged and scaly serpent or saurian with a crested head and enormous claws; a violent, combative, or very strict person; something or someone formidable or baneful

 

* * *

_15 years old_

 

The tall, thin figure stepped into the alley and crossed quietly to a door about midway along the brick wall. If there had been more light, it would be easy to see the smirk twist his full lips as he looked at the bars on the door. The man paused a moment, listening, and then he took a breath and walked through the bars and the door into the back room of the shop. His eyes had already adjusted to the dark so he scanned the room carefully while picking his way through the boxes and crowded shelves on the way through. A door marked "Office" was obviously his destination as he didn't even pause at it but phased right through to the other side.

After a moment's perusal, the man stepped around the desk and bent over it, pushing the chair out of the way gently. There might not be anyone around but there was also no reason in taking chances. A small shaft of light fell across one side of his face, highlighting sharp cheekbones, a rather long nose and thick, black lashes framing almond-shaped eyes that gave him an exotic look. The artificial light shining through the window cast an eerie glow on his skin. He tried to open one of the drawers but found it was locked. A small frown crossed his face, then a brief look of impatience. He closed his eyes and reached his hand through the drawer, feeling around for something. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he phased a set of keys through the drawer front. He looked around, checking for security cameras but, apparently seeing nothing, shrugged it off, turning to an old wood table.

A thick layer of dust covered the top of some surveillance equipment. A video screen showed the inside of a pawn shop. The camera slowly scanned the room from the entrance up front to the back cage where the employee would sit and then back again. The man stared at the screen with a look of concentration on his face, following the camera's progress. The most valuable items for sale (jewelry, antiques, rare books) would be kept in the cage. They stuck with the less obvious jewelry–gold chains, watches, simple rings–nothing too fancy, gaudy or obviously expensive because it was harder to resale. Antiques and rare books were only of interest when someone paid them to be interested. Tonight, they were interested in a rare medical book, probably worth a mint on the market, but for them it was worth another week's rent and food. As the camera panned to the back of the shop again, he could see a barrister against the back wall inside the cage.

To the cage, then. The thin man stood up and pressed the power button on the video recorder, another smirk playing on his lips. Apparently the pawn shop owner was too cheap to put surveillance around the whole shop, having faith in bars and locks to keep out thieves. He turned from the table and walked to the opposite wall where a small safe sat. Slipping the backpack off, he unzipped it and then unhesitatingly reached through the safe door, pulling out stacks of bills and dropping them in the backpack. When he was done, he zipped the backpack up, stood and slipped it back on. Starting toward the door, a glint of something metal caught his eye. On the corner of the desk was a Zippo lighter, an expensive one from the look of it, with a unique shark wraparound design. After a moment's hesitation, the man palmed the lighter and then crossed the room quickly, walking through the wall right beside the door.

On the underside of the surveillance table, a small red light, recently activated, flashed silently.

John stood in the shadowed doorway, intently watching the building across the street. Peeling paint on the large window in front announce "Sal's Gold 'N Pawn" and the red blinking sign on the bar next door glinted rhythmically off the glass behind the bars on the windows and door.

Ivy shifted impatiently beside him and sighed quietly.

"I hate this part," she said.

John glanced at her, lifting an eyebrow. "C'mon," he said, tilting his head, "What could be more fun than standing around in a shitty part of town, freezing our asses off while your brother shops?"

Ivy snorted then stared at the window of the pawn shop, her eyes narrowing.

"See anything, shrimp?" John asked, fingering the bic lighter in his jacket pocket. A fire would be nice right about now. He hated the cold and the dark. Resisting the temptation, John turned to look at Ivy as she watched the pawn shop, her enhanced vision allowing her to see inside. He was still amazed sometimes that they'd taken him in at all, let alone treated him like a brother. He hadn't been the friendliest sort when they met, having been on his own for a year in a city not known for it's hospitality. His mind wandered, thinking about the past. Meeting the Chens and becoming part of their family. The various odd jobs they took and worked together, or separately–stealing high-dollar antiques for clients, the very occasional scam operation enticing some mark in with the promise of great reward only to trick him out of everything they could before disappearing. And when things got really rough, they'd resort to the traditional pickpocketing and breaking and entering. Sometimes he felt a pang of guilt, wondering what Norman and Mrs. Grueber would think if they knew but he felt, for some reason, that Norman would understand even if Mrs. Grueber were disappointed with it. Besides, he thought bitterly, what did it matter? He'd never heard from or seen Norman again after that night...

"Pyro? _John!_ " Ivy said urgently.

John jerked back to the present, looking at Ivy in surprise.

"Where were you?" she asked, giving him a quizzical look before heading across the street to slip through the now unlocked pawn shop door. John followed right behind her, his eyes only needing a moment to adjust before he was scanning the room looking for all available exits while simultaneously checking for things that would prove useful as barter or easily sold.

He didn't like that the only exits appeared to be the front door and, probably, the back alley door that Nikki phased through. The potential for being trapped made him feel a little uncomfortable but Nikki seemed to be at ease and they weren't planning on being there long, anyway. Get in, get the book, grab whatever else they might be able to resale and get out. Besides, he knew that Nikki would've already checked out the store security and done whatever he needed to so they wouldn't get caught.

The uneasy feeling persisted but he ignored it in favor of looking through the video games and portable game players in a glass case near the front of the shop. Ivy was checking through the cds and players a few shelves in. Probably looking for her favorite bands first, John thought with a little smirk. Nikki was inside the cage, door open, looking through a bookshelf against the wall. The antique book must've been there.

John had snapped up three games and two Game Boy Advances that looked good enough to hawk. They usually did pretty good at their regular spot on St. Mark's when they had a nice selection of personal electronics and music. Fourteenth St was better when NYU had just started a new semester–most of the freshmen were easy marks, especially with the game systems and cds.

Nikki stepped out of the cage with his backpack in hand, unzipped. He was carrying a large tome, apparently the rare book wanted by their client. He was looking down at it, as he walked through the cage door, shaking his head as he read the title.

"Check this out," he said, holding the book up for John and Ivy to see. "Of Men and Monsters: A Study of Strange Maladies and Physical Aberrations Presenting in Adolescents and Young Adults in the Past Century with Special Focus on Current Instances by J H Jackson." He recited for them.

Ivy wrinkled her nose. "When was that written?" she asked curiously. John was only half-listening. Ivy loved history and all that old crap. John found most of it boring as hell. He ignored the voice in his head calling him a liar–a dusty, old book could never compare to how Norman told a story. He shook his head in frustration. Memories of that year with Norman had been haunting him regularly the past couple of days. It was distracting and irritating.

"1887." Nikki replied, shaking his head again as he slipped the book into his backpack.

"Do you suppose it's about mutants?" Ivy continued. Nikki just shrugged, looking at the pile of cd's and the cd players she'd picked out.

"Oh!" Nikki paused, reaching into his pocket, then tossed something to John. "Now you can get rid of that crappy Bic you've been carrying."

John reached out and caught the item, looking down curiously. He felt a stab in his chest as he looked at the lighter. It was a Zippo with what must have been a hand-painted design on it–a shark head that wrapped around one side of it. It reminded him of the model plane that Mrs. Grueber had given him for his birthday. The one that Norman had helped him...He ground his teeth in frustration. _Move on, John!_

"Nikkiiiii...," he said, "You didn't _steal_ this, did you?" he asked in feigned disapproval. Ivy rolled her eyes but Nikki just chuckled, slipping the cds and players into the backpack. It would be a pretty good haul with everything they'd picked up that night.

"I'm keepin' the Bic, though. It never hurts to have a backup or two," John said, slipping the shark Zippo into his jacket pocket and tucking the Bic into his left back pocket. He already had one extra Bic in his right sock. He'd learned the hard way not to get caught without any way of making fire. He hated not being able to create the fire on his own but every attempt he'd made had failed and he'd stopped believing he could do it since that day in the hospital, anyway.

John tossed the games to Nikki, who caught them deftly and dropped them into the almost-full backpack as Ivy walked over near John to see what games she might want for herself.

Then, for the third time in his life, John's world came crashing down on him.

Nikki had his back to the cage, looking expectantly at John for the Game Boys, when a man burst through the cage door aiming a shotgun at them. Ivy turned in surprise, squealed and raised her hands, flickering into the background for a moment. John stared wide-eyed at the man, holding a Game Boy in each hand and wondering if he could risk dropping one to get to his lighter. He cursed himself for putting the Zippo into his primary pocket since he hadn't even checked it to see if it was full and usable.

Nikki turned toward the cage, holding his arms out waist high with the backpack in his right hand. He phased out briefly in fear and then solidified quickly, hoping the man was too nervous to notice that he and his sister had both defied normal human abilities. Unfortunately, their changes had been noticed by the man, who's eyes began to look wild and a bit panicked.

"What the hell do you freaks want from me!" the man yelled, waving his rifle a bit too erratically for comfort.

John turned his head slightly. The sound of sirens became clearer in the distance. "Police," he whispered urgently, wanting to kick himself for ignoring his unease earlier about their lack of escape routes. If the police got here too soon, they'd be stuck for sure. John had no interest in dealing with police again, ever.

Nikki nodded slightly, gently lowering the backpack to set it on the ground. He lifted his hands back up to his waist and debated how he was going to phase out and take this guy down without anyone getting hurt.

"What are you doing, freak! Why are you doing that!" the man asked with increasing hysteria in his voice. "Don't come any closer!"

"It was getting heavy. I just wanted to set it down," Nikki responded quietly, sounding amazingly calm to John's ears. John slowly moved his arms back and set the Game Boys on the counter behind him quietly while the maniac was occupied with Nikki. He suddenly wondered if he should cause some kind of distraction–Nikki must be planning to jump the guy somehow, so it might be better to get him to look toward John instead. Except that meant he'd be aiming toward Ivy, too, which was the last thing John wanted.

Before John could decide, Nikki tried to edge slightly toward the man who seemed to lose all reason and started shouting at Nikki to stop trying to melt his brain or something incoherent like that. Nikki calmly tried to explain that he wasn't a telepath. Ivy had covered her ears with her hands, crying, begging them to stop and staring wide-eyed between Nikki and the shotgun. John looked briefly at Ivy and started towards her when the sound of the shotgun roared in his ears causing him to grab Ivy and swing her around with him to duck behind a low shelf of stereos and speakers.

The silence was deafening for a moment before the wailing sirens reached John's ears again. He couldn't hear any movement inside the shop, just the sound of heavy breathing. He pulled the Zippo out of his pocket with a shaking hand and flicked the lid open before peeking around the corner of the shelf. Nikki was still standing at the glass case but his hands were no longer visible. The maniac with the gun was just standing in front of the cage with the shotgun slightly lowered, staring in shock at Nikki.

John glanced back at Ivy who was crouched on the floor, rocking gently, with her eyes closed and her hands still covering her ears. He stepped quietly out from behind the shelf and stood up as Nikki turned toward him, his hands covering his stomach with blood seeping out between his fingers. John felt a numbness sweep over him as he stared at Nikki's stomach, at Nikki's life slipping out of him in rivulets of blood. He raised his eyes to see Nikki looking at him with disbelief and shock.

"Ivy...," Nikki whispered before falling to his knees and then face first onto the floor. John stood rooted to the spot, stunned and shaking, staring at Nikki's unmoving form. The sirens were outside, lights flashing red and blue, bathing the shop in a kaleidoscope of colored light. The darkness and rage he'd kept at bay while he was with Nikki and Ivy surfaced and his face hardened as he looked at the shop owner over the glass counter now smeared with blood.

"He was attacking me," the shop owner said, desperately, looking at the young man lying on the floor and still clinging to the drooping shotgun. They were mutants, no doubt, but they were all so young–the one he'd killed couldn't be more than 19.

The shaken man looked up at the kid standing across the room and felt a stab of fear. The hatred and anger clouding the teenager's face was frightening. He didn't know what this kid could do but he didn't think he wanted to know. He raised his gun at the same time the boy raised his hand and flicked his lighter. A second before he could pull the trigger, a blast of heat and flame struck him full force and threw him back against the cage, screaming in terror and pain.

The police came through the front door just then, guns drawn and aimed at John, yelling for him to get down on the floor. John froze, indecision etched on his face, his lighter still gripped in one hand and a flame dancing on the palm of the other. There were three policemen standing in front of him, two more coming through the front door and he could hear noises in the back room indicating the likelihood of more police coming from the back. He was completely surrounded and totally fucked.

Take care of Ivy, John thought scornfully. Nikki should've known better than that...he couldn't even take care of himself. The best he could do was keep them distracted so Ivy could get away. He slipped the lighter in his pocket as he formed the flame into a dragon shape, slowly increasing its size as its wing spread out and neck arched. It was fearsome to see and the policemen seemed unsure of whether he had conjured up some sentient fire dragon to fight them. If the creature could think, it might not be happy about them shooting the mutant.

The five police in position in front of John, were joined by at least three more from behind him. He could hear the shuffling of feet and click of metal from their guns and it made his back itch but he continued manipulating the dragon, making it lift off and rise above him in a display of fiery anger as he stretched his arms wide.

"I don't want to have to kill you, boy," came a quiet voice and he could feel the presence of one of the cops directly behind him. He imagined the gun must be aimed directly at his head. He didn't really want to die but he owed Nikki and Ivy his life and he wasn't about to let Ivy get caught. The dragon figure reared back as if preparing to throw flames at the officers in front of John. Then he saw the front door to the shop open slightly, just enough for a small teenage girl to fit through. He dropped his arms, allowing the flaming dragon to die out as a feeling of relief washed over him.

It didn't last long. The police were on him in a heartbeat, forcing him to the ground, taking his lighter and putting handcuffs on him. John hoped Ivy would be alright by herself but wasn't comforted by his own experiences. He promised himself he would find her as soon as he could but didn't hold much hope on that happening, either. He didn't expect he'd ever be set free again. Jail, prison, mental institute. Dark and cold, every one of them. His mind shied away from the last one, still haunted by memories of his other experience in the psych ward.

He shivered at the thought as the police dragged him to his feet and took him to the waiting cars outside.

 

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks once again to **trovia** for providing editing suggestions, a good sense of humor and distracting stories from a different fandom. Hope everyone had good holidays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first scene where I claim artistic license with John's powers. They never show in the movie that he can do more than create a ball and shoot flames, yet Bobby could create a sculpted flower, etc. I've debated a few times about how the mutant classifications worked in the movie (I did look them up in the wiki but there appear to be multiple classifications use depending on the official source). The movies used a 1 through 5 classification, 5 being the most powerful. Phoenix was supposedly the only Class 5 mutant either Charles or Eric had ever met and Callisto mentions that she's the most powerful mutant she's ever sensed. With that said, Callisto also mentions that Magnet and John are both Class 4 mutants (she says higher than Class 3, but we can assume they're only Class 4 since Phoenix is the only Class 5 mutant).
> 
> All that to point out that it seems to me that Bobby is likely a Class 4, as well, since he and Pyro are pretty evenly matched power wise. And since Bobby has the ability to manipulate ice enough to basically create a sculpture out of it, it makes sense that John would be able to manipulate fire in a similar fashion.
> 
> My head canon is that John could make various creatures or items out of fire but that usually when he's stressed, emotional or very angry he tends to just shoot flames. In this scene, however, I felt it was appropriate that he would focus enough to do something to distract the police so that Ivy could escape and creating a flame dragon was probably more of a safer distraction than shooting flames that might catch Ivy in the crossfire.


	8. Confining Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott picks up John at the police station and convinces him to give Xavier's a try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully Scott isn't too OOC. I think I did alright with him but he's not a favorite of mine so I might not be writing him in the most flattering manner. I actually wish they would've done something different with him in the third movie because they really seemed to perform a pretty thorough character assassination in that one.

**Part VII: Confining Places**

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort**

quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**confining**

to hold within a location; imprison; to keep within limits

* * *

_15 years old_

Police station, sheriff's office…sometimes the only difference was the attitude of the officers and deputies. This police station looked like most big city ones—lots of hustle and bustle, cheap plastic chairs for waiting and a big wooden desk with a harried-looking police officer standing behind it.

Not that Scott had been familiar at all with police stations until after becoming a teacher at Xavier's School for Gifted Students. Mutant High. His mouth twitched at the name. His class had come up with the nickname and it had certainly stuck. But being a professor (not to mention an X-Man) carried a lot of responsibility.

Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time he'd had to go to a police station to pick up a student. Or an orphanage, juvenile home, or mental institute. Professor Xavier tried to personally visit each student to invite them to the school but their enrollment had grown exponentially since Scott's days as a student and the Professor just couldn't spare the time anymore for every student.

Jean normally came with him, especially when the pick up was somewhere other than the student's home. But they were in the midst of Thanksgiving preparations at the school for those students who stayed through the holidays. The Professor had been adamant that he pick this one up as soon as possible, so Scott found himself standing alone in the police station waiting patiently for the desk officer to give him a moment. Apparently they were short-staffed…another trait most police stations seemed to share across the country.

"What d'ya need?" The policeman finally turned his attention to Scott, eyes narrowing when he saw the rather unusual eyewear. The officer relaxed a bit as he took in Scott's clean-cut face, polite smile and neat appearance.

"I'm here from the Westchester School. I believe our…Dean gave you a call about a young man you have in custody."

"Oh, the firecracker." The officer wrinkled his nose in distaste as he picked up a receiver and pushed a couple of buttons on the phone. After a moment, he said, "Hey, Frank. Bring that mutie up here…" Scott's jaw clenched as the officer continued. "Guy's here to pick him up."

Scott blinked in surprise, then frowned. "Don't you need to check my ID?"

The policeman shrugged and said "sure" in a bored voice, turning back to the pile of papers on his desk. Scott's frown deepened as the officer barely even glanced at his drivers license before handing it back.

"Do you have no concern whatsoever for the safety of the child in your care?" The officer gave him a disbelieving look, so he continued. "I could've been part of some research facility wanting to use him for experiments!" The man merely shrugged, his obvious disregard making Scott's blood boil. "Or even a terrorist group wanting to use him," he added, anger radiating from him.

The officer snorted, "Good luck with _that_. This kid isn't the type to cooperate with anyone."

A shout followed by a loud thump came from behind a door along the wall, cutting Scott off before he could respond. The officer smirked and raised his eyebrows.

Scott turned his attention to the door, the anger still burning in him. The door slammed open and an overweight policeman came through backwards, dragging the teenager with him, followed by a wiry looking officer. Scott felt a sense of unease as he watched them from across the room, catching a glimpse of brown hair and then a flash of very worn sneakers as the mutant continued to struggle with the officers.

"He does everything the hard way," the desk officer said drily. Scott barely glanced toward the man, his attention still focused on the battle taking place on the other side of the room. He was rather alarmed at the boy's aggressiveness, wondering at the cause.

"I'm a little surprised they're releasing him to you. He did kill a man while robbing him," Scott looked fully at the desk officer again. "He admitted to it?" The guy shrugged.

"Claimed it was self defense. That's the only reason he wasn't immediately sent to a mental institute. Well that and the call from your Dean offering to take him." Scott noticed that several police officers had wandered into the room, apparently to watch this kid being dragged out and surrendered into his custody. He looked sharply at the desk officer again, catching amusement mixed with dislike in his eyes as he watched the two officers subdue the teenager. Apparently this was somehow entertaining to them all and Scott had had enough of it.

He moved quickly toward the continuing struggle and said firmly, "I think I can take it from here." He had to resist the urge to smile. The three identical looks of surprise directed at him seemed almost comical. But the moment passed as the teenager's eyes narrowed with suspicion. The two officers glanced at each other then looked back at Scott, shrugging and loosening their grips.

That was all the teenager needed. He wrenched free, ducking under the smaller cop and aiming for the front doors. The large officer was surprisingly quick, though, managing to grab the mutant's ankle as he climbed over a row of chairs. The boy came crashing to the ground, wriggling and kicking the cop in his efforts to get free.

Scott reached them just as the smaller officer did. The other policeman had managed to get the boy handcuffed but he was still struggling wildly. The cops pulled him to his feet and tried to shove him toward Scott but the mutant back pedaled as if touching Scott might actually hurt him.

"I'M NOT GOING BACK TO A MENTAL INSTITUTE!"

The two officers grabbed him before he could bolt again, holding the squirming boy as Scott looked at them and said accusingly, " _Mental institute_?!"

The smaller officer had the decency to look slightly ashamed but the big guy simply shrugged and said defensively, "We were just messin' with him."

"WHAT?!"

Both officers stepped back from the teenager as he rounded on them, a surge of heat emanating from him. Scott was shocked at how menacing the young man looked as he faced the two policemen. Even handcuffed, he looked angry enough to take down both officers. Scott felt a moment's hesitation, wondering if the Professor had been wrong about the kid's lack of fire starting abilities. He could feel the heat from where he was standing several feet away.

Masking his concern, he walked up carefully behind the mutant teenager and gently put a hand on his shoulder. "It's not worth it," he told him quietly.

The boy jerked his shoulder away, throwing Scott a dark look, but visibly backed down to stand slightly behind Scott, breathing heavily and shaking slightly. Scott turned to the officers and asked for the key to the handcuffs, earning a disbelieving look from them before the smaller one finally handed a key to him.

Turning to the teenager, he said firmly, "My name is Scott Summers and I'm taking you to a private _school_ in Westchester. Right now, though, I want to uncuff you but you need to calm down and promise you won't try to run again…"

The bigger cop interrupted, "If we keep havin' to drag you back here, kid, they _will_ end up sending you to a mental institute."

"Enough!" Scott was fed up with their treatment of the boy. Turning to him, he said, "You're gonna have to trust me."

"Why should I?" the teenager asked belligerently.

"Do you see anyone else here you can trust?" The boy dropped his head, glancing around the room from under his brow, looking at the police officers scattered about. Scott scanned the room as well, marveling cynically at how full it was now when it had been almost completely empty at his arrival.

"John," John muttered. Scott looked him a question.

"My name is John," he said, looking sullenly at Scott. Scott took this as the boy's acceptance and walked around him, uncuffing his hands.

"Does he have any belongings we need to pick up?" Scott asked, looking toward the desk. The officer dropped a small plastic bag on the desk. Scott followed John to the desk and watched as he pulled out two bic lighters and a rather fancy-looking Zippo with a design painted on it. Apparently, that was the extent of his belongings. After they'd both finished signing the appropriate paperwork, Scott gave the officer a curt nod and, taking John's arm began to firmly lead him to the door. John pulled his arm free but followed closely behind as they exited the building.

Outside, Scott was fuming as they walked toward the car. He'd picked up kids before from bad situations but it never ceased to anger him at the callous and, many times, hateful treatment some of these children had to endure. The boy was too thin, in Scott's opinion. He hadn't had much chance to get a good look at him in the chaos of the police station, but now that he could, he was alarmed at how hardened the teenager looked. It was obvious that life hadn't been easy for him. While Scott agreed, in theory, with the Professor's policy of offering any mutant in need a safe haven at the institute, he sometimes doubted the wisdom of doing so. In practice, he'd found that some of the kids that were treated the worst before coming to the institute ended up being too disruptive at the school. Very few had been actually "expelled" because the Professor seemed to have limitless patience with most of them. More than a few had left of their own accord, after only staying on a short while. Scott was pretty sure the Professor felt responsible for each of those students' departures, no matter how many times he would tell the faculty that the student had made their own decision. He always kept an open-door policy for them, saying he would gladly accept any of them back as long as they were returning with an honest reason. Scott hoped that John wouldn't prove to be one of the disruptive ones but wasn't naïve enough to really think otherwise.

He glanced toward the teenager, wondering what his story was and noticed the boy looking at him with curiosity and suspicion.

"What's with the goofy glasses?" John seemed to be debating in his mind whether he could trust someone who wore such an accessory. Scott also suspected that he was planning some sort of escape. The boy kept scanning the street and sidewalk.

"They're for my mutation." Scott answered him, as they reached the car. For the first time, Scott got the impression that he had John's full attention. "You don't actually think I'd wear these without a good reason do you?" He smiled broadly at John, hoping to put him a little more at ease, and was satisfied to see the teenager's lips twitch in response.

"What's this school you're taking me to?" John had obviously recovered from his initial surprise and amusement and was already eying Scott suspiciously again. Scott leaned against the car, resting an arm on the hood as he considered what description might be the most effective in convincing John to come with him without a fight.

"The official name is Xavier's School for Gifted Students but most of the students call it Mutant High." John watched him with interest as he explained about the teachers and, especially, the students hoping that John would be enticed by the idea of living and going to school exclusively with other mutants like himself. Most mutants, especially the disenfranchised ones like John appeared to be, were mainly seeking a place to belong, a place to fit in. Very few of the students were comfortable enough with their mutation to feel accepted out in the world and even fewer knew how to handle themselves with the obvious prejudice and dislike that followed many mutants wherever they went. Scott was counting on John needing that acceptance and hoping that he would at least give it a try. If anyone could reach him, Scott was sure it would be the Professor.

Apparently, it worked because John slipped into the passenger seat when Scott opened the door for him. Within minutes, they were on their way, fighting stop and go traffic as they headed out of the city toward Westchester.

As Scott turned the corner two blocks down from the police station, a black car pulled into the parking space they had vacated just minutes prior. Two muscular men exited the car and walked into the police station, both wearing plain dark suits. One of them approached the desk officer while the other stood back a few feet surveying the room. The chairs had been put back in order and most of the room had cleared since the two mutants had left. There was no obvious indication that they had been there.

After a minute, the desk officer looked up at the man standing in front of him. "Can I help you?"

"I understand you brought a mutant in last night—a boy who could manipulate fire?"

The officer raised his eyebrows at the man and said, "Popular fella." The well-built man's gaze sharpened, taking on a hardened look that made the officer feel a bit uncomfortable.

"Meaning?" The look of steel on the visitor's face forcefully reminded the officer of Scott's words to him… _or even some terrorist group_ …. He swallowed and said, "he was already picked up this morning. You just missed him."

"Is that so?" The muscular man raised his eyebrows, leaning forward on the desk in a subtly menacing fashion. "And who would have picked him up?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. There was silence for a moment as the officer stared at the man, almost mesmerized. He was under no illusions that these two men were extremely dangerous, although it seemed a bit surprising that they would waltz so confidently into a police station and try to intimidate a cop. The sound of the door closing across the room broke the silence and the officer was glad to see three other policemen enter the room. Apparently the tension in the room was tangible enough that all three officers took up spots nearby to keep an eye on the two suited men and whatever was transpiring at the desk.

With his colleagues nearby, the desk officer looked back at the man in front of him in a challenging manner and was immediately struck by the almost predatory look in the guy's eyes. An image of his daughter came, unbidden, into his mind.

"Some school in Westchester was taking him in." The desk officer shrugged, trying to look disinterested. "Didn't pay too much attention…we were just glad to be rid of the mutie." He justified sharing the information with the man by telling himself that it really wasn't enough for the guy to find the kid. There had to be dozens of schools up in Westchester…

"Surely you have a record…a signature somewhere?" The man looked polite and deadly. The desk officer was relieved that the other three policemen had moved in even closer, flanking and almost surrounding their two well-built visitors. The man at the desk glanced back at the other officers as the policeman at the desk said, "We don't share that kind of information with anyone. There's really nothing else I can give you…." He pointedly looked toward the door, wondering if these two would have the audacity to actually try to force him to tell them what they wanted to know. But the man suddenly backed down, giving the cop a broad smile and saying, "Of course. I understand. Thank you for your time."

The two men left as quickly as they'd arrived and the desk officer spent the rest of the day trying to ignore the feeling of guilt that had settled in the pit of his stomach.


	9. Ping Pong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John chats with Logan about meaning of mutanthood type stuff. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: First scene contains some almost more-than-implied sexual spanking with main characters from the movies (Scott Summers and Jean Grey). For the record, I never really headcanon these two characters having this sort of relationship, though it was mildly amusing to write it. It was actually a prompt from one of my betas at the time and she'd been so awesome as my beta so I wrote it up. Originally just intended it to be a standalone one-shot for her but it kinda morphed into being part of the story. If you find the idea offensive or want to skip it, you should drop down past the first main section of the chapter and just keep in mind that John had detention that got cancelled because he walked in on Scott and Jean doing the deed.

**Part IX, Ping Pong**

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort**

quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**ping pong**

_n._ something resembling a game of table tennis; _especially_ , a series of usually verbal exchanges between two parties

 _v._ shift, bounce

* * *

_Sixteen Years Old_

He was late. Not that he cared—it was just detention. The worse that would happen is Mr. Summers might assign him an extra detention or give him extra work to do. Big deal. Now if it were Ms. Munroe, he'd be in serious trouble. She didn't take shit from anybody. He flicked his lighter on again as he got to the classroom door. Hearing a whacking sound from inside the room gave him pause as he pictured Mr. Summers slamming books down on his desk. Maybe he was mad after all…

He heard the murmur of a voice—didn't sound mad. Maybe he'd just dropped something by accident. Shrugging, John flicked his lighter again and opened the door. Stepping inside, he froze, eyes wide and mouth hanging open as the door clicked shut behind him.

He caught of glimpse of a bare ass before Mr. Summers flipped the skirt down to cover it. Shapely legs, a schoolgirl uniform and auburn hair….John found himself leaning slightly to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman's face. Not that he really needed to—the hair was a dead giveaway. It was definitely Dr. Grey bent over the desk.

"Way to go, Mr. Summers!" John blurted out without thinking, a wicked grin on his face. He heard a quiet groan and the sound of a thump as Dr. Grey's head hit the desk.

Mr. Summers, his face bright red, edge in front of Dr. Grey's backside, holding a familiar-looking paddle behind him, as if he hoped John hadn't seen it. John's grin resolved itself into a smirk as he watched his teacher's squirm with embarrassment.

"Soooo," he exhaled, "Is this a bad time? Or should I just find a good spot…to work on my homework, of course…"

Mr. Summers cleared his throat.

"Yes, well…actually, we'll just…uh…postpone your detention to tomorrow."

 _He's sweating!_ John thought gleefully.

"Sure thing, Mr. Summers." John turned toward the door, then paused. "I have some friends to hang out with, anyway. _Talk_ to…you know," he said with a wink. Mr. Summers jaw twitched and his face turned a darker shade of red.

"I…won't…be…blackmailed," he ground out through clenched teeth. John's eyes widened innocently. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir." The sugary-sweet tone made it obvious he was lying.

Dr. Grey made a strangled noise in the back of her throat and then hissed, "Scott!"

Mr. Summers opened and closed his mouth, making John think of a fish—a purplish-reddish fish…that was seriously considering blasting him with his laser eyes. _Maybe I'm pushing this a little too far._ John held his breath.

"Fine!" Mr. Summers finally relented. "Do the extra credit problems from chapters one through five. For tomorrow," he bit out.

"Wow! Thanks, sir. Night Dr. Grey," John said cheerfully, fighting to hold back his laughter when she feebly raised her hand in a dismissive wave.

It didn't take her long to recover, though. Before the door had closed, John heard Dr. Grey saying, "Give me that!" in a voice that sent a chill down his spine. Mr. Summer's stuttered excuse was drowned out by Dr. Grey's command for him to bend over.

* * *

Halfway down the hall, John gave in to the laughter, leaning against the wall as he gasped for air. Catching his breath, it finally dawned on him why the paddle had looked so familiar. It was one of the ping pong paddles from the rec room. John was fairly sure he'd never be able to play ping pong here again.

He started flicking his lighter again, still chuckling as he headed toward the stairs. What to do, now that he had some free time.

As he reached the end of the hallway, the smell of cigar smoke hit him, making his stomach clench. He was relieved to see Logan perched on the window ledge at the top of the stairs. Not that his dad would ever come after him with a cigar again, but the smell always brought back unpleasant memories.

"Interrupted the happy couple, eh?"

John let out a huff of air and slipped his lighter in his pocket. "Yeah. Can't decide if I should wash my eyes out with bleach or go tell everyone I know."

Logan gave a low chuckle that sounded more like a growl. "You should be glad you didn't walk in on them in the danger room. Woulda gone straight for the bleach."

John snorted and leaned up against the wall next to the window, staring out at the manicured grounds of the mansion. He'd been here close to a year now. Spent much of his time feeling out of place and convincing himself to give it a little more time. He'd gone through nine roommates (three of them at one time) in under four months and had finally been stuck with Bobby, a guy who was his complete opposite in every way imaginable. Not that John didn't do his best to annoy the shit out of him every chance he got. Bobby was the only one who not only put up with it but took it all with good humor and frequently gave back as good as he got. Plus, he had a seemingly endless supply of practical jokes and, while he frequently acted like a Mr.-Summers-wannabe, he also had a very playful side that reminded John of both Jason and Ivy.

His mind shied away from thinking too hard about Ivy but not before a frown reached his brow. He refused to think about his utter lack of success in finding her. He refused to feel guilty about how his efforts had slowed down dramatically since he first arrived. He hated feeling…refused to feel ashamed about how he could go for days without ever thinking about her now….

"How's the roommate?" Logan quirked an eyebrow at him. John let go of his thoughts on Ivy with a quick promise to himself to sneak back into the city that week and search for her again.

Glancing at Logan, he shrugged, making a face. "S'alright." His roommate troubles were well-known around the school and Logan had obviously heard the stories. "He puts up with me which is more than I can say about most people."

John tilted his head a little and watched Logan for a moment. "He's gotten pretty attached to your tagalong," he said, slyly, curious about the relationship between the two newest additions to the school.

They'd shown up a week previous and already the stories that surrounded them ranged from the slightly ridiculous to the utterly absurd. They were father and daughter running from some research facility. They were lovers running from her angry family because of their age differences. They were recruiters for some evil mutant terrorist group trying to persuade students to join their army.

John suspected the answer was much more mundane than any of the rumors flying around, which, if he were honest, was disappointing. Their being on the run, hiding from someone, gave him a connection he couldn't really seem to make with any of the trusting students and wannabe X-men that populated Mutant High. There were a few kids that likely had as unpleasant a history as John's, but he had yet to find another person on campus who questioned the methods or tenets that the professors taught them on how to survive in this world. And every newscast on TV just added to John's discontent as he listened to non-mutants discuss _his_ future and how to track and control mutants.

John figured that Logan wasn't the type to stick around anywhere for long and would just as soon hook up with the guy and get out of the school. Being there was alright at times—he enjoyed eating regularly and felt relatively safe most of the time but he was too cynical to believe that would last, especially if the government started instituting some of the new mutant regulations they loved to promote.

On the other hand, if Logan and Rogue really were recruiters, well…John didn't feel exactly warm and fuzzy about too many non-mutants and being a terrorist sounded a heckuva lot more interesting than taking science and literature with a buncha do-gooder geeks. Like everyone else, he'd heard the stories about the X-men—the teachers at Xavier's institute doubled as "heroes," fighting against terrorists, saving people and just generally being "good guys." Some students apparently even graduated and then stayed on as teachers and X-men. He wouldn't even kid himself into thinking he'd qualify for anything with the description of "hero" attached to it unless it were prefaced with "anti-." If he wanted to see that kind of action, or have any kind of direct involvement in fighting for mutant rights, he'd have to go somewhere else for it.

Of course, if Logan and Rogue were just strays (which he figured was the most likely scenario) there really wasn't any escape for him that way.

Other than an almost imperceptible stiffening of his shoulders, Logan gave no outward sign that he cared what Rogue was up to with Bobby (or anyone else, for that matter), not giving John much hint as to their relationship. Then Logan shrugged and speared John with an intense stare, bringing to mind a snake preparing to strike. John turned his gaze back out the window, shifting uncomfortably.

"You could do worse than a place like this, ya know."

John turned to Logan in surprise, giving him a searching look, then shook his head slightly before turning back to the window.

"I'm not so sure about that," he muttered.

"It's an ugly world out there, kid. Especially for people like us. You're not likely to find a better than this. They'll keep you safe, give you opportunities you wouldn't get most other places."

John continued staring out the window a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. Then he asked, "But how do you know this is the right way?"

Logan raised an eyebrow in question.

"They spend all their time trying to blend in and hide what they are—the Professor, the other teachers." John's agitation increased as he continued, "And that's all they teach us how to do. We shouldn't have to do that!" he finished, facing Logan angrily.

It was Logan's turn to gaze out the window, thoughtfully puffing on his cigar a moment. Then he sighed and said, "The world's been this way a long time. One group of people trying to force their will on others and…"

"It's not the same thing," John insisted, interrupting him.

"It's not, eh? How do ya figure that?" Logan asked.

"The abilities we have, the things we can do, make us…special… _better_."

Logan's eyes narrowed, watching John before dropping to look at the cigar he was rolling between his thumb and forefinger.

"That's a dangerous way to think. Leads to you doing things to non-mutants that you hate them for doing to us." He looked up at John, gauging his reaction. Then he shrugged and went back to smoking and looking out the window, as if he suddenly remembered that he didn't actually care about the teenager he was talking to.

"What do I know, kid. You want answers to life, go talk to the Professor."

John watched Logan, his anger growing. He could recognize a dismissal when he saw one. Logan was obviously tired of playing counselor, which was fine by John since it was obvious that Logan had bought into the Professor's philosophy, as well. John abruptly turned and stalked off down the stairs toward one of the back entrances, intent on getting outside and finding something to burn. He wondered, not for the first time, if the Professor was using some kind of brainwashing technique to make everyone agree with him but could never figure out why he was immune to it. He just couldn't understand how so many people would think that doing nothing was the best way to fight.

A memory skittered through his brain when he exited the building, the sun warming his arms as he walked toward the denser wooded areas and away from the other students playing on the grounds. He'd pulled his lighter out again and was flicking it as he tried to grab onto the memory and figure out its significance. Something to do with Norman. And books.

His 12th birthday started playing through his mind. One of two good birthdays he could ever remember having. Norman and Mrs. Grueber had thrown him a little party—cake, presents, even some decorations. Mrs. Grueber had given him that WWII fighter plane…he glanced down at the lighter in his hand…with the shark's head on the nose. And Norman had given him a book. A little book by that Russian guy. Now that the memory was playing through his mind he could see the inscription inside the front cover as if he were holding the book in front of him:

_To John,  
_

_The grandson I never had. Try to remember that fighting doesn't always have to include violence._

_With the greatest affection,  
Norman_

He swallowed hard, his anger having been exchanged for sadness. The memory had stopped him near the edge of the wooded area and he looked around uncomfortably to see if anyone had noticed his emotional state. No one was paying attention to him, though, which he felt was a mixed blessing. It would've been nice to have someone he felt comfortable enough to talk to right then. He started to head into the woods, instead, thinking about Norman's inscription and trying to figure out how you could fight against people intent on controlling you without resorting to violence at some point. And wondering why it mattered to him what Norman thought anyway. He hadn't seen him after that night of the fire and figured the old guy must've been horrified and disgusted when he found out what John was.

Just before he stepped into the woods, he heard someone call his name. Looking around, he saw Bobby standing on the basketball court with several other teenage boys, holding a ball.

"Come on, John! We need one more to even out the teams," Bobby called.

John hesitated a moment, then shook his head at himself for getting caught up in thinking so deeply. Life had never made much sense so it ended up being better just dealing with things as they came up. When it was time to fight, he'd fight, regardless of the crap they taught at this school. He changed directions and headed toward the basketball court, letting go of his anger and jumbled thoughts about the future.


	10. The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby's pov to give us some idea of how others see John. Also a bit more set up as to why John ends up joining the Brotherhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set between X1 and X2. Last chapter was obviously set near the beginning of X1, after Logan and Rogue have arrived at the school. My estimate of the second movie is that it clipped along rather quickly--it seemed like the whole movie (ignoring Logan's intro scene at Alkali Lake) only lasted 3 or 4 days maybe. So there are no other chapters that take place during X2. The next chapter will pick up right before or very early on during X3.
> 
> This is quite a long chapter, over 4000 words. I debated splitting it up but it really fits together well so I'm leaving it as is.

**Cold Comfort, Part X, The Storm**

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort**

quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**storm**

a disturbance of the atmosphere marked by wind and usually by rain, snow, hail, sleet, or thunder and lightning; a sudden or violent commotion; a disturbed or agitated state

_Seventeen Years Old_

Bobby was worried about Rogue. It had barely been a month since she'd been taken by Magneto and subsequently rescued by the X-Men. Then Logan had left just a few days later. Bobby figured that the first week after the event she'd been on some kind of wacky, I'm-alive adrenaline rush that carried her through the initial days back and Logan's absence. But by the following week, she'd crashed, crying at the drop of a hat and getting angry at every little thing. She'd driven John absolutely batty until Bobby realized that John was starting to avoid them. Rogue would head down a hallway and Bobby would see John turn around at the other end of the hall and rush into the nearest classroom or down the first flight of stairs. Bobby had teased him about being a coward on several occasions for it, but he knew that wasn't true. He had known since becoming friends with Rogue that John only tolerated her because of Bobby. And Rogue frequently thought John behaved like a selfish child. Bobby had hopes that one day they'd actually get to know each other better and become friends, of sorts, but wasn't holding his breath over it. They could get along just fine but all three of them knew it was a façade held together simply by Bobby's need for both of his friends.

At the moment, however, Bobby was searching the Mansion for Rogue. He'd stupidly made some comment about Logan and she'd come unglued, running out of the room after railing on him for several minutes. Both Kitty and Jubilee had given him reproachful looks before following after their emotional friend. Bobby followed more slowly, hoping to give Rogue time to cool down a little before approaching her with an apology. He wasn't completely sure why she'd been so upset—he'd only been trying to comfort her fears that the Canadian might never return. Of course, emphasizing Logan's animal traits and likelihood of being considerably older than her probably wasn't the smartest move but he was getting frustrated that she was so obsessed with the man and didn't seem to realize that Bobby was right there for her.

 _Ok, so I'm jealous._ Bobby paused in the hallway and sighed, staring blankly ahead. _I've never even met the man and I still feel like I can't compete. Can't she see it would never work with him?_

Bobby shook his head and moved on again, heading toward the stairs. He had to admit to himself that times like these made him miss the simpler days before Rogue showed up at the institute. Right now he and John could be playing a practical joke on one of the older students, out on the court shooting hoops or dueling one another and playfully arguing over whose power was better.

Of course, thinking of that made him feel a pang of guilt over John since Bobby hadn't really been able to spend much time with his roommate while Rogue was on her emotional roller coaster. Bobby found himself alternating his time between comforting Rogue while she fell apart and mollifying her as she yelled at him for some perceived offense. Sometimes he found himself wanting to sneak down the back stairs or duck into the nearest classroom with John so he could avoid Rogue altogether, but he also knew she needed him right now and he hoped that it wouldn't take her too much longer before she got over this. He might not understand her completely but if what she needed right now involved him being a punching bag or shoulder to cry on, he was more than willing to do so.

John, on the other hand…well, John was still a bit of a mystery to Bobby, even after knowing him for a year and a half. Bobby had been starting his sophomore year when John was brought back to the school with Mr. Summers and the new mutant immediately started making a name for himself as a troublemaker. He frequently gave attitude in class, forgot his homework or just didn't do it, and generally cut up whenever he could. His first three roommates requested a change in sleeping arrangements within three days (Bobby amused himself with the idea that John must've done something to each one of them on each of the three days). They'd switched John's roommates more times than Bobby could remember until they'd finally decided to put the two of them together.

At first, Bobby was horrified at the idea of having to deal with John constantly and even spoke with the Professor about it, hoping to get him to talk to Ms. Munroe about the roommate assignments. But the Professor told Bobby that the housing change was done at his request because he felt that if anyone could tone down John's wildness and be a good influence on him, it would be Bobby. So he put on his best face and made an effort to really work with John, finding himself both drawn to and repelled by the boy's rebellious attitude. Actually, the troublemaker in John wasn't what mystified Bobby about his roommate. He knew that John had a pretty rough background, although his friend never spoke about his past much. What surprised Bobby about John were the flashes he saw behind the tough exterior—glimpses of an unexpected depth in the political books John kept at his desk and read in bed sometimes; a protectiveness and tenderness toward some of the younger students; and hints of fierce loyalty for Bobby even to the point of defending Rogue for Bobby's sake. John might hide it all with a mask of indifference and sharp tongue but Bobby just knew there was a genuinely good soul lost behind the tough exterior. And he figured the Professor must know it, too.

Rogue first, though. Bobby had to get his current trespass with her straightened out but figured she might feel better if she had a night with the girls, something he was going to suggest when he caught up with them. Kitty and Jubes would probably be up for entertaining her and that would leave Bobby open for finding John and hanging out with him. Lately, it seemed like they just saw each other at night when they crashed, in class when they couldn't really talk much or occasionally at meals (John had even taken to hanging out with Pieter and one of the younger students at meals). With that figured out, Bobby sped up a little, taking the stairs two at a time.

He rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, glancing out the huge window on the landing on his way by. His brows snapped together in a frown as his brain tried to register what he'd seen in his quick glimpse. He turned back to the window, covering the three steps quickly and peering out. His eyes traced a path across the manicured grounds, between the gardens and basketball court, past the reflecting pool and…there he was. It was John and he was moving quickly towards to wooded area, probably to his favorite secluded spot near the back edge of the grounds. Which meant that he was really upset about something. Bobby decided right then that Rogue could wait and ran back down the stairs to the back door.

When John had first moved into Bobby's room, he'd been unfriendly to say the least, deliberately provoking Bobby every chance he got. They'd gotten in more than one scuffle in the first week alone, having several duels and testing each other's powers and personalities—John was as fiery and wild as his power while Bobby was controlled and more cautious. It all came to a head one day when they got into it in the rec room. Before they were done, the TV was frozen inside an ice block and the couches were smoking, with black burn patches all over them. Mr. Summers showed up in the middle of it and dragged them to Professor Xavier's office. The Professor had been disappointed and Bobby was completely ashamed. He was supposed to be helping calm John down and had almost destroyed the rec room fighting him instead.

Rather than getting angry with them, the Professor had simply told them that if they felt the need to do something like that again, take it outside somewhere away from the main grounds so no one (and nothing) would get hurt. And he made them clean up the rec room. Ironically, they'd never had another fight that bad again.

John sort of initiated the change when he'd played a practical joke on another student the following day that left the prissy teenager covered in a slimy, green goop that smelled strongly of seaweed. Bobby wasn't sure where John had gotten the slimy stuff but when Bobby walked in on his roommate setting up a pail of the goop in one of the second-floor study rooms, he'd surprised John by jumping in to help him rather than running off to tattle. After the trap was triggered, the unsuspecting victim spent several hours in the shower trying to remove the stuff only to find that the smell remained, no matter how much soap and cologne he put on to remove or mask it. Bobby and John spent close to an hour in their room laughing about it and going over the other boy's facial expression when he got a whiff of the crap that covered him.

Bobby reciprocated by getting John to help him play a joke on the girls (Kitty, Jubilee, and another older student whose name he could never remember) that involved both of their powers and left the girls in soaking wet t-shirts to the joy of all the guys present at the time. Their friendship was pretty much sealed after that.

Three months later, Bobby found out about John's "burn site," as John called it. They'd been in Ms. Munroe's government class when John had been called to see the Professor. Bobby didn't know what it was about and couldn't think of anything that John would be in trouble for without him, so he assumed it was a private matter, perhaps about John's family or something. John wasn't in their next class, either, though, and neither he nor the Professor showed up for lunch. As Bobby left the lunch room, laughing with Kitty about a joke Jubilee had made, he caught a glimpse of the brown-haired boy walking quickly through the hallway toward the back of the Mansion, tension showing in every line of his body. He'd said goodbye to Kitty and followed John out of the Mansion and across the grounds, having trouble keeping up and certain that the other boy was upset about something.

_Bobby almost lost John in the woods, jogging in the same direction he'd seen his roommate heading. Stepping out of the more thickly wooded area, he was disappointed to find himself alone. He'd been sure that John was heading in this direction but couldn't see the other boy anywhere. The scent of smoke hit his nostrils and he suddenly saw a flash of orange flame ahead of him to the left. He headed toward it, noticing a slightly worn path through the bushes that looked like it would take him to the right place. The further along the path he walked, the more he could see flashes of fire and hear movement._

_Coming into the clearing, Bobby was startled to find himself face-to-face with a large, fiery dragon. Stumbling backward, unnerved, he held his breath as the dragon hovered in front of him, fire wings lazily flapping, as if examining him before gracefully turning away and flying across the clearing to wrap itself around John. The dragon shrank in size as it circled John finally becoming a small orb hovering over the boy's hand as he watched Bobby from the other side of the clearing._

_Bobby looked around curiously as he walked toward John, noticing burn patches all over the ground and a pile of smoldering wood and brush in the center of the clearing sitting on top of a large pile of ashes. There were bushes circling the clearing but the area was large enough that John could obviously manipulate fire quite comfortably without coming near the live plants._

" _That was amazing!" Bobby said enthusiastically as he reached his friend but John only made a huff of disgust before turning the single ball into three and juggling them. Bobby could see the anger radiating off his friend and assumed it had to do with his meeting with the Professor. His attention was drawn to the balls as John fumbled one and then angrily made all three explode into a swarm of bees that flew up over the clearing and disappeared into a trail of smoke. As Bobby's eyes dropped back down to look at John again, he found the other boy staring at him angrily. Bobby stuffed his hands into his pocket and cast his mind for something to say, finally settling on the straightforward method._

" _I…uh…take it your meeting with the Professor didn't go well?"_

_John's lip curled into a bitter smirk before he looked away and then dropped his head to stare at the Zippo in his hand. Rather than doing his usual, single-handed flick with the lid and flint, both hands were worrying the silver lighter as the boy seemed to have some kind of internal struggle. When John spoke, it was in a low, bitter voice._

" _I asked the Professor to help me figure out how to start the fire by myself. After digging around_ _in my brain for a bit today, he told me that he didn't believe I had the ability to start fires. That my capacity for manipulating fire was strong but my powers didn't seem to encompass actually creating fire." John suddenly gave a cry of pure frustration, flicking his lighter on and throwing a blast of fire at the pile of wood causing it to immediately flame up._

_Bobby took a step back from the pyre in the middle of the clearing. He wasn't sure what to tell his friend that might help. He'd been aware that John always found it a bit frustrating that he couldn't create fire himself but had never realized how much it bugged the other mutant. Bobby thought that John's skills at manipulating fire were very impressive. Never having to deal with the same issue with his power, it didn't occur to him that John's inability to create fire made him feel less powerful somehow._

A loud whoosh and a searing heat against his face brought him back to the present abruptly. He'd reached the clearing just as John threw a huge fireball at a dead bush nearby. Bobby paused to take in the smoldering woodpiles and flames already dotting the burn area, even though John couldn't have arrived more than a couple of minutes before him.

His friend looked furious, aggressively tossing fireballs around the area and coming perilously close to the denser wooded area that surrounded his burn zone. Bobby felt another stab of guilt for not checking on John more regularly with everything that was going on with Rogue. He'd meant to on several occasions but realized it had probably been close to a month since they'd spent any time hanging out. While John tended to be something of a loner, pushing most people away with snark or just flat out scaring them with fire, Bobby had somehow managed to worm past John's defenses and he'd realized early on that the hot-headed boy depended on Bobby as an outlet for his fears and frustrations, whether through talking, venting, competing or dueling. Since Bobby had been so focused on Rogue lately, John hadn't really had that outlet and, obviously, he'd reached his breaking point.

Bobby announced his presence by shooting ice at the smoldering woodpile in the center of the clearing, effectively cooling it down and smothering any embers still left. John's head whipped around to face Bobby, his eyes narrowing. There was a moment of stillness as neither of them moved and then a look of relief crossed John's face before it hardened and he began throwing fireballs and raising small fires around Bobby to harass him. The attacks came fast and furious but Bobby met each with little problem; they'd done this dance a thousand times before, though not usually this intensely.

The duel lasted close to 45 minutes and John's burn site was completely wrecked when they were done, maybe even a bit wider than it had been before they started. Bobby could tell John was doing better when his attacks became more playful—a fire snake whipping around his feet making him do a little jig to get out of its way, a phoenix shape that actually caught some of Bobby's ice balls he was volleying at John and dive-bombed him, dropping the ice balls back over Bobby's head. It was all over when John suddenly created this weird, giant rat-looking creature with an afro and sent it after Bobby.

Bobby's hands dropped in surprise. "Uh, John? What the hell is that?"

John made a face at him. "It's a lion," he retorted, offended.

"That is most definitely not a lion. It looks kind of like a big…rodent with a really fluffy…I don't know…scarf? covering its head."

John stalked over to Bobby's side to get a look at it.

"That's a perfectly accurate…," he faltered a bit as he got a good look at the creature he'd created out of fire. "…lion-ish type of…thing."

Bobby burst into laughter, followed closely by John who closed his hand and watched the weird fire animal as it was extinguished.

"Mercy killing," Bobby choked out, which set both of them off again.

As Bobby collapsed on the ground, gasping for air, John walked over to a tree on the edge of the clearing and pulled out the small cooler he kept tucked in a hollow. It was a practice he'd gotten into shortly after turning the area into his personal "burn site." The first few times he and Bobby had one of their duels out here, they'd both pushed hard and ended up tired and thirsty. Trudging back to the mansion to grab water became an annoyance so he got ahold of a small cooler and started keeping some water bottles and granola bars in it. He was still chuckling when he walked back holding both bottles out so that Bobby could chill them before flopping down on the ground alongside his friend and closing his eyes for a moment.

Bobby turned to study his friend's face, relieved to notice that John looked surprisingly relaxed, a slight smile on his face and a single lock of hair plastered to his forehead from their intense workout. John's smile slipped into a smirk as he turned towards Bobby and lazily opened his eyes.

"You know, Rogue's gonna get jealous if you keep eyeballing me like that. Something you're tryna tell me?" Bobby rolled his eyes and shook his head as if disappointed and then busted out laughing again when John waggled his eyebrows at him.

"Please!" Bobby gasped, "Promise me you'll never use that on someone you're actually trying to seduce." John faked looking shocked.

"I'll have you know I use it all the time. Works like a fucking charm." The exaggerated wink John gave set Bobby off again. This time John joined in on the laughter.

 _This feels good,_ Bobby thought. Out loud, he simply said, "I missed this." Looking over at John, he turned away when he caught John's eye, feeling guilty. "I'm sorry. I should've been around more for you."

John actually looked a little puzzled when Bobby glanced back at him, then a flash of something else. Guilt? Finally, he shrugged, "It's alright. Rogue's been through a lot. I get it. But…I missed this, too."

Bobby hesitated a moment, then, "It was a bit more than just the usual frustrations…." He turned to watch John this time. John sighed and pushed himself to a sitting position, opening the water and taking a long pull on the bottle. Bobby followed suit as he realized how thirsty he was. When he'd had his fill, he sat patiently waiting for John to continue.

John sighed again, fiddling with the bottle cap before glancing at Bobby and then quickly looking away again.

"I don't dislike Rogue, you know. We just don't have a lot in common. No, don't interrupt," John stopped Bobby as he nodded his head and opened his mouth to speak. "I thought at first I could just pretend that it didn't matter since, you know, the X-Men stopped everything at Liberty Island, but…," John paused, focusing on the bottle cap in his hand again.

Bobby was genuinely puzzled now, not following at all what John was getting at. His puzzled look must've spurred John on because the other boy gave another sigh and tried again.

"I've been avoiding both you and Rogue the past month or so because of…because I…actually wanted that thing at Liberty Island to work. I basically wanted the X-Men to lose," he finished in a rush, looking equal parts defiant and ashamed.

Bobby was shocked. "But, it would've killed Rogue…."

"I know." John actually looked slightly miserable for a moment.

"…all those people there…"

"No. They would've just turned into mutants."

"That's not what the professor said. Or what Ms. Munroe said. They said it was unstable. That it would cause their dna to breakdown or something."

John's shoulders dropped and his head sank lower. "I wanted it to work."

"That's not right, John," Bobby whispered. Then stronger, "He was just gonna force them to become…."

"Cause _we_ had a choice about whether we would be mutants or not, right? It would've _forced_ them to revise their opinions about the mutant registration act. Don't you see what they want to do, what they're _going_ to do to mutants eventually!" John argued passionately. "First it'll be registering, then they'll start limiting where we can work or live or go to school. It won't stop until they have us completely under their control or dead."

"It won't be like that." Bobby replied, exasperated. "The Professor and the X-Men won't let it get that far. We'll fight this but we'll do it the right way, within the law and by making them understand that we're not that different."

"You're wrong, Bobby, don't you see that." John was obviously frustrated again. "We're completely different from non-mutants. We're stronger, better in a lot of ways."

"We're not better. You're the one that's wrong, John." Bobby could feel the anger rising in himself as he tried to make John understand. "You've never told me about your parents. Were they mutants? Were they 'better'?" Bobby made finger quotes as he said this. He could see John's jaw clench as he mentioned his parents but pressed on.

"My parents aren't mutants. Neither is my brother. But I'm not better than they are. I'm just a bit different. Still human, still able to laugh and cry, love, fight, play. Everything that non-mutants do except with an added ability." John started to say something that looked like an 'I told you so' but Bobby overrode him and continued his argument. "I can't fly a plane. Or paint a masterpiece. Can you? Does it make someone better than me because they can do something I can't? How does that make any sense?"

Both boys were standing by now, facing off as if they were dueling on a more personal level. John gave a cry of irritation, turning on his heel and pacing away from Bobby before turning back around in a huff.

"That's completely different, Bobby, and you know it. A person can't just go learn how to create and manipulate ice or turn themselves invisible. Anyone can learn how to fly a plane or speak 7 languages, if they really want to. It's not the same thing at all." It was John's turn to be exasperated and he tugged on his hair in frustration as he paced around the burn site.

"I don't want a bunch of people to die. I didn't want Rogue to die. I just…I want mutants to be safe and free to be themselves. _I_ want to be free to be myself and to feel safe, not feel like every human that runs into me hates me or wants me chained up somewhere."

Bobby exhaled as he calmed down a bit. He could understand that, especially coming from John, whose background was obviously not one of safety and comfort. Even if he didn't know the specifics, he was aware that John's experiences in childhood were almost completely opposite of his own. His tone turned to one of persuasion, almost pleading.

"And that's exactly what the Professor wants, John. That's why he created this place, created the X-Men. For that very purpose. But you can't go around just forcing people to change their minds. It doesn't work that way. If you try to force it, they'll just keep believing what they want to anyway. We have to _show_ them that we're still people, not monsters. What Magneto and the Brotherhood were doing is exactly what monsters do."

John was still pacing as Bobby did his best to reel him back in, but he stopped when Bobby finished, his hands clenched into fists as he thought over what was said. Then his hands went lax and his shoulders drooped.

"We shouldn't have to prove anything," he whispered. Then his head lifted and with a resigned shrug, he turned to face Bobby again.

"I really didn't want Rogue to die. I'm glad she didn't." John's version of an apology. Bobby took it for how John meant it and walked over to him, throwing his arm over his shoulder.

"I know you didn't, man. It's all good." He gave John's shoulder a quick squeeze before letting go and bending to pick up the bottles and caps lying on the ground. John pushed the small cooler back in the tree hollow and they headed back to the mansion in somewhat companionable silence until Bobby got tired of John's pensive look and slid a couple of ice cubes down his shirt before taking off with a whoop for the front door. John's startled shout was followed by a burst of flame at Bobby's heels, spurring him to run just a little faster and they entered the mansion in high spirits as John finally got close enough to tackle Bobby inside the foyer. The few students in the entryway scattered as the two boys tumbled to the ground. Dr. Grey stopped a couple of feet from the wrestling teens, a look of amusement mixed with exasperation on her face.

"Boys, that should be taken outside."

"Or into your bedroom!" Someone piped up from the other side of the entryway.

John flopped onto his back, still laughing, as Bobby jumped up, almost standing at attention, his face bright red.

"Sorry, Dr. Grey. It won't happen again."

"I'm sure it won't," she replied, skeptically, before walking away with a small shake of her head.

Bobby turned and grabbed John by the hand, hauling him to his feet. John smirked at him, shoving his hands into his pockets before pointing his chin toward the hallway. "She's really gonna be jealous now," he said, waggling his eyebrows again. "Better go grovel a bit," he suggested, nodding sagely.

Bobby gave a quick laugh, clapping John on the shoulder before he turned and headed toward the hallway and his somewhat annoyed looking, not-quite girlfriend. At least he'd gotten one thing sorted out, so the day wasn't a complete bust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the chapters already completed. My plan is to post weekly but I don't have any specific posting day planned right now. Next chapter should go up sometime next week, at the latest.


	11. Enlist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The X Men find out about Jameson and decide to do a little digging. Magneto is slowly building his army and securing Pyro's loyalty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woot! Another chapter! I'm clipping along here a great pace. .
> 
> Anyway, apologies for the length. I'll write a scene and then realize it's entirely too short (I think this was under 1500 words) so I'll decide to do another scene and the whole thing seems to morph and explode, like one of those tiny sponge dinosaurs in the little capsules that you get in the grocery store for $2 because your kid's harassing the crap out of you for one and you're too tired to argue about it. Right...where was I?
> 
> Well, whatever. This is the next installment. I have a portion of the next chapter ready but it has a ways to go.
> 
> This chapter is set just before or at the very beginning of X Men: The Last Stand, which apparently happened 3 years after X Men: United.

 

* * *

 

**Part XI: Enlist**

Webster's Dictionary:

**cold comfort**

quite limited sympathy, consolation, or encouragement

**enlist**

to secure the support and aid of, employ in advancing an interest, to win over, attract

_18 years old_

"I met with Hank a couple of days ago," the Professor's cultured accent dragged Logan's attention from the window and the flurry of rambunctious students outside, laughing and playing under the warm afternoon sun.

"Oh, how's he doing?" Ororo asked enthusiastically. Though his name had been cropping up regularly now, Logan hadn't met this Hank guy yet but obviously Storm liked him a lot. He twirled his cigar, turning it in his mouth as he waited for the Professor to continue.

"He's doing quite well. Very satisfied so far with how his appointment has been going. I'm glad the President saw fit to take some of our suggestions for alleviating non-mutant concerns." The Professor picked up a dark green folder as he spoke and moved around his desk to hand it to Ororo.

"He brought me this. Said someone he worked with had run across it, though he wouldn't say who or where. But he thought it might be something we'd want to look into."

Logan moved from the window to stand next to the couch where Ororo was sitting, leaning just a bit so he could see the folder contents. The folder itself had "CLASSIFIED" stamped on the front in red and the inside contained information on a research company that had functioned for several years under government approval. "Jameson Research Corp." was the name and as they skimmed through the information on it, Logan felt his stomach clench and his jaw grinding.

Jameson was no Weapon X program but they apparently once had unofficial government sanctioning to use "enlisted" mutants in various research projects. Their main contribution had been unlocking the information regarding the mutant gene and how the father carried the gene. They'd managed to figure out how to determine if an individual were a carrier through a simple blood test that isolated the appropriate dna and exposed the carrier. The paperwork included memos, some research documents, a plan to make the Carrier testing mandatory for all men over age 18, information on several of the mutant subjects they'd experimented on, and details about some of their employees.

After giving them a few moments to skim through the folder and watching both mutants become increasingly agitated, the Professor interrupted them.

"The government has since desanctioned the company, unofficially of course, however it was never fully shut down. They allowed Jamesons to continue some of their research and never required them to release any of the subjects they were holding since, technically, it wasn't happening."

"That's horrifying!" Ororo exclaimed, eyes narrowed and full of fire. Logan pulled his cigar from his mouth and examined it, realizing he may have ruined it completely from biting down on it so hard.

"Yes, it is. However, there's something I found a bit more disturbing and, perhaps, a little more close to home in that file."

Ororo and Logan exchanged glances and then looked at Charles, expectantly. He rolled himself towards one of the windows, looking outside for a moment at the students enjoying their day before turning to them with a sigh.

"Towards the back you'll find a section they've labelled the Jameson 4. Apparently part of their research on the Carrier test included using it on their own employees. All of the men were given the test over the course of several months and they found that four of those men were Carriers of the gene. All four already had children and the company felt rather proprietary about them.

Since Jameson had been desanctioned, their pool of subjects began diminishing as mutants either died or managed to escape somehow. They seemed to feel a sense of ownership for those four children. The first two to have their powers activate ….," Charles took a deep breath, "well, the fathers were paid a large severance package, their children were taken by Jameson and that was the end of it."

Ororo sucked in a breath at this. Logan stood up abruptly and walked toward the window again, gazing out unseeingly and trying not to think about what might have happened had Rogue, or any of the other children here, been in that position.

"The third child to manifest her mutation," Charles continued, "apparently her father wasn't as willing to hand his child over to the company. He was trying to take his daughter away but they caught up with them, killed the father and took the girl."

Dark clouds suddenly rolled in covering the sun and the wind started to kick up. The students outside looked around a bit confused.

"Storm," Charles said gently. Ororo's lips tightened for a moment and then the weather cleared quickly.

"Sorry," she said, quietly. "I just don't understand why people do these things." She stood up abruptly and paced around the room for a moment before pausing as Charles spoke again.

"People are afraid of things they don't understand...and before you say anything," as Ororo opened her mouth to interrupt, "...I'm not claiming that makes it alright. Unfortunately, those three aren't actually the ones I was most concerned with."

Logan looked at the Professor in angry surprise. "There's more?"

Charles gave a slight smile, "It's called the Jameson 4 for a reason, Logan. There was a fourth mutant, one that was never taken. It seems that the mutant ended up in the system and either bounced around or ran away enough that they could never get ahold of him.

The name of the mutant's father was William Allerdyce and according to the file, the man died in a trailer fire about 7 years ago."

The way Charles said the man's name made Logan feel like he was missing something. Ororo wasn't though. "Pyro is the fourth."

"That's correct, Storm." Logan made a face at the revelation, obviously wondering why it was so much of a concern, as Charles continued. "The individual that gave this to Hank said he'd heard rumors that Jameson was still searching for him..."

Logan shrugged. "So? He's a big boy. And he's thrown in with the Brotherhood. Seems like they should be the ones worried about that, not us."

Ororo nodded in agreement. "As much as I'm concerned about the welfare of the mutants they may be experimenting on, I have to agree with Logan. We've got our own worries here…"

Charles interrupted, "They were also under the impression that Jameson was courting some of the more vocal anti-mutant politicians, possibly trying to get some new backing and apparently they're being linked to Worthington labs, the company that's created what they call a cure for mutants." He pushed on, talking over both X-Men as they began protesting again, "And I wasn't necessarily suggesting we directly get involved in this one. I do think it's something that needs to be addressed but, I agree with you Logan. I believe the Brotherhood probably would be interested in pursuing it."

Logan's mouth snapped shut and Ororo looked surprised and then approving.

"Leak the information to the Brotherhood and let them take care of the issue. It's a little devious but it makes sense."

The Professor smiled wryly. "That's not _exactly_ what I was thinking, Ororo. I'm not sure I want to set the Brotherhood on anyone, particularly an organization that's done some of the things Jameson has. I would like to have Logan look into this a bit and see what information he can collect. See if there are mutants being held there. I do intend to let Eric know that they should keep an eye on Pyro in case Jameson tracks him down. It seems that Pyro has been working quite closely with Eric, travelling around the country recruiting mutants to the Brotherhood. If your research proves them to be a negligible threat, I might pass some of the info to Eric for Pyro. I imagine he might be interested in looking through some of their records...or making some of them disappear."

Logan slid the cigar back in his mouth and eyed the Professor thoughtfully. "You know, I'm not the most subtle person. Maybe having Ororo do…"

"I need Ororo here to work on something with me. Just do your best." Charles abruptly turned and headed back to settle at his desk, shuffling some papers around as if looking for something.

Logan continued to look at Charles for another moment before standing with a curt nod and moving towards the door. "Alright. I'll leave shortly." A pause, then, "I'm taking Scott's bike." He threw a smirk over his shoulder as he headed to his room to pack.

When he finally got on the road, Logan let his mind roam, mostly considering what Charles seemed to be doing with this Jameson thing. Ororo would've been the better choice-she was more gracious and apparently knew this Hank guy so she would've had an easier time gaining access. Which meant Charles was likely counting on Logan making some noise as he obtained the information they wanted. Logan's best guess was that the Professor was hoping he would alert the Brotherhood to the situation without Charles having to directly point Eric at Jameson. The manipulation niggled a bit at his brain, though he'd never had any illusions that the Professor could be quite ruthless when necessary. He just preferred to have the man be up front with him.

With an internal sigh, Logan glanced at his watch and, noting the steady march into late afternoon, he accelerated the motorcycle to its limits and let the adrenaline rush take over.

* * *

Pyro stood in front of Magneto's desk looking down at the map spread out on the surface. There were a few markers in place showing locations they'd visited while recruiting, the four safe houses they had set up around the country, and several proposed targets for infiltration. Their focus tonight was their next move, including one of the infiltration targets, the one in New Mexico. Tectonic was leaning casually against a nearby wall while The Alchemist was seated at the chair in front of Magneto's desk, one leg elegantly crossed over the other as he drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. Mystique was perched on the corner of the desk, watching Magneto as he crossed behind Pyro and rounded the desk.

It had been three years since Pyro joined Magneto and Mystique at Alkali Lake. Just the three of them to start since the other members of the Brotherhood had apparently been either killed, locked up or MIA from the Liberty Island attack. Their first base of operations was creepy in John's opinion. All stone and metal and water sitting on top of a huge cliff. And cold, always cold. Thankfully, it hadn't taken long for Magneto to start attracting followers so they needed to find something that was a little easier to get to and less daunting for new recruits. After a bit of scouting by Mystique, they'd found a remote place out in California that had an underground bunker. Just a bit of renovating (Magneto attaching metal plates to everything) and some metal furniture, of course, and they were set.

There was a small warren of underground facilities, six rooms total with a connecting hallway. Magneto had immediately set up the large, open room as his office and their base of operations. He turned the single room off the main area into his private quarters with a bathroom. The short hallway on the opposite side of the main area led to the other four rooms, too small for bunking a large group of people but functional for single occupants. They turned one into a large bathroom, one into a kitchen and the other two were claimed by Mystique and John.

Finding and setting up their new base had taken up a good portion of their time until recently. Between the renovations, John had gone on some missions to collect information, either quietly or with threats and fire while Mystique had done what she was best at-impersonating people for information and influence or infiltrating government offices and facilities to find whatever they could about how the non-mutants were planning to proceed.

At first, John thought about Bobby a lot. Speculated if the other boy missed him at all or wanted to know if he was ok the way Pyro sometimes wondered about how Bobby was doing. His experience had taught him that wasn't likely but wishful thinking sometimes made him think about it. Over time, his memories faded somewhat but, like his memories of Norman, John knew that he would likely never completely forget Bobby, either. The other mutant was one of the very few people who seemed to care about him unconditionally, for at least a short while.

Magneto and Mystique were different in that regard. They appeared to like him and consistently encouraged him to develop even more control over his powers, but they weren't exactly warm and friendly. Magneto was quite clearly mentoring him and Pyro loved the positive attention. They _trusted_ him, gave him responsibilities and chances he'd never had anywhere else. For that alone, Pyro was completely loyal. And as their numbers grew, Pyro maintained that position of trust with Magneto.

Their growth was slow, though, since Magneto didn't seem to be in a rush to build their membership quickly yet. He also seemed to be less interested in presenting the polished face John had originally been introduced to. Magneto had a full beard and somewhat shaggy hair these days, seeming to prefer to focus on setting a good foundation for them, getting Pyro trained up, and establishing some safe houses they could work out of across the country. However, they'd still been touring around the country quietly, picking up some of the disenfranchised along the way. They'd gathered a few followers from those with an axe to grind to those who just didn't seem to have anything better to do with their time. Magneto accepted any type of mutant into the Brotherhood but took a particular interest in those with more powerful abilities and those who showed a stronger commitment to the cause. But the initial recruits were mostly grunts, as Magneto referred to them in private. Warm bodies needed to take care of the some of the more basic needs for a large group like setting up tents, digging bathroom facilities, helping new recruits settle in and just generally assisting with how the organization should run. There were a few members, though, that Magneto allowed into his small group of leaders, mutants who could lead missions and oversee others, though not at the same level as John and Mystique did.

Tectonic, who had the ability to create earthquakes, move rocks, pretty much anything related to geology, had joined on one of their earliest recruitment trips while they were still working on the bunker. They found him in Nevada and he'd followed them back to California. He'd even done a walkthrough of the bunker clearing out the remaining debris and making sure everything was stable. His personality, however, wasn't the easiest to take. The guy hit on pretty much every woman that got within 20 feet of him and used the worst lines ("Hey babe, want me to _rock_ your world?") usually with a lewd gesture. Mystique had dropped him twice, knocking him unconscious once. He'd been electrocuted, teleported into the middle of a river, and even had one low-level telepath make him walk around acting like a chicken for a day.

They picked up The Alchemist on the east coast and didn't that name make John cringe every time he heard it, which was whenever the mutant was around since the man insisted people call him by his "full name." Pyro initially thought the guy was trying too hard, especially since his power to change any substance into another substance seemed pretty lame to John. But after running two missions with the mutant, Pyro was suitably impressed. He still thought the name was terrible, though, and never missed a chance to call him "Al" instead, to the other mutant's disgust.

Cagiran was an interesting one and someone Pyro avoided like the plague. The man could influence people's emotions. Make them essentially feel whatever he wanted them to. The second time John watched Cagiran pit two people against each other simply for the entertainment, he decided to give the mutant a very wide berth.

And then there was Hydra. John's personal blast from the past. Well, not directly, since he'd never met the mutant before the man joined the brotherhood in Texas. Hydra had the ability to grow extra limbs at will and replace those that might get damaged or lost, which is, of course, where he got his name. They got along just fine at first until somehow, some way Hydra got wind of Pyro's real name. Specifically his last name. Which ended in a rather violent encounter between the two of them. John walked away with a cracked rib, some ugly bruises around his neck and a sprained wrist. Hydra had to grow back several extremities and lost his eyebrows (who'd have thought hair growth would be harder than body parts?).

When they both finally calmed down enough, John learned that Hydra had been one of the mutants at Jameson that his father had directly experimented on so he found it easy to understand the mutant had reacted so violently toward him. For Hydra's part, as soon as John explained that his father had actually tried to strangle him so Jameson wouldn't get him, the man grudgingly apologized and admitted he may have overreacted to the name. They didn't become best friends or anything but could work just fine with one another, even if they generally avoided hanging out much since neither was interested in that reminder of things from their past.

Which brought them to the present. Cagiran and Hydra were already on a mission with another lower-level mutant. That left the five of them in the bunker discussing what their next plan of action was.

"Mystique, I need you to find out what is going on with the cure. How close they are and any other details you can. Particularly what they're using to base this cure on." He paused for a moment, standing very close to Mystique as he explained her mission to her. They seemed to share some indefinable private moment before Magneto continued and John wondered, not for the first time, exactly what kind of relationship these two had.

"The Alchemist and Tectonic will hit this facility in New Mexico," pointing to the marker in the southwest corner of the state. Pyro threw a surprised look at Magneto, wondering why he was being left out of that assignment, exactly the type of mission he would normally head up. He flicked open his Zippo and started playing with the ignitor in his usual fashion, the _click click_ sound filling the brief silence as he waited for his mentor to explain what his mission would be.

"I need you with me for another job," Magneto caught the look and gave him a small smile before directing his gaze back to the others. "Report back on whatever you find and try not to make things too messy," a stern look fell on Tectonic at the last comment. The Alchemist's lips twitched and he gave a small nod in Magneto's direction at the unspoken request to keep the other mutant in line.

The other three made their way out of the bunker as Magneto bent down to retrieve a shipping box sitting by his desk. Pyro continued playing with his lighter as he watched his mentor open the box and pull out an elegant looking case that he turned and slid across the desk to John, gently taking the lighter John was flicking and setting it nearby.

John gave the other mutant a puzzled look before pulling what he guessed was a gift toward himself, noticing that the case itself must have cost a fortune, all deep red wood with a high shine. He hesitated and glanced up at Magneto, only opening the wood box when the man gave him an encouraging nod.

Nestled inside the padded velvet lining were a pair of bracers, obviously custom made just for Pyro. They were made of leather, his iconic shark design tooled and colored on the back of the hands. The metal flints were positioned at the base of the palms, just above the wrists; small enough that they shouldn't impede his range of motion and in the perfect position for him to quickly flick them to create sparks. There was a thin plastic tube attached to each flint that connected a small metal reservoir with a strap, designed to rest on the inside of his arm just below the wrist area.

Truth was, he didn't actually need the fuel to create fire. A spark or ember gave him plenty to work with, though he liked having the reservoirs, just in case he needed an extra boost. John quickly slipped the bracers on his hands, snapping the straps in place across his palms, wrists and forearms and started testing the feel of using the flints. There was a smooth, natural feel to it; intuitive, like this would be the way he would actually create fire, if he could. Magneto was smiling at him with that pleased but slightly condescending smile he wore regularly around John.

"They suit you. And now you don't need this..." Magneto tossed his shark lighter at him, "...anymore." Pyro easily caught the lighter and slipped it into his pocket, not giving Magneto any confirmation that he would be getting rid of the offending piece since he had no intention of doing so. Never go anywhere without a backup.

"It's not my birthday, you know," John was still watching Magneto with a slightly puzzled look on his face. "But thanks. This is...perfect."

Magneto gave him another indulgent smile before beckoning him back to the desk, the shipping box on the floor again. "See all of this?" He gestured to the world map, still spread on his desk, markers dotting the United States. "Our fight isn't just restricted to the US, Pyro. Canada, Mexico, South America, Europe, Russia, Africa, China…" he pointed at each as he named them. "This war is building up in every country on the planet. We're going to be the spearhead that leads our people, homo sapiens superior, to victory and any human or mutant who doesn't support us will simply be dealt with."

Pyro felt a pang of guilt as an image of Norman and Mrs. Grueber entered his head, knowing they wouldn't fit into the world Magneto envisioned but he squelched the thought quickly, focusing on his mentor.

"I have great plans for us, Pyro. Great plans for _you_." Magneto waved toward Pyro's wrists, "These are a reward. For the work you've done already and the loyalty you've shown to the Brotherhood. This only the beginning." He turned and headed up the steps, confident John would follow.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for the new follow and for anyone who's returned to this poor abandoned story. Still planning on publishing once a week, though this story is nearing it's end. I currently only have 3 more chapters planned after this one, though if they keep running this long, I may end up splitting some up. And I most definitely have a follow up story in the works that's completely AU but will give John his happy ending. For the record, I am still doing my best to keep this first story movie-canon compliant, so if you see anything too glaring, just let me know.


	12. Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pyro confronts Magneto about Mystique and then receives a double shock as his past finally catches up to him in spades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, finally got this one finished up. As mentioned, I've tried to stay true to the timeline in the movies but I will admit that this one is actually slightly altered so it would fit together better.

**Chapter 12, Loyalty**

Webster's Dictionary:

**loyalty**

faithful to a person to whom fidelity is due; faithful to a cause, ideal, custom, institution, or product

_January 2006_

Pyro watched as the newest members of the Brotherhood followed Callisto out of the underground meeting room at base camp. At any other time, he might've been amused by Magneto's instruction to Callisto to show the two men to their "guest" quarters (spare tents toward the center of the camp) since Pyro knew it must have offended her feminist sensibilities. But he was far from seeing any kind of humor at the moment. He turned his attention back toward Magneto as the door closed, watching his mentor accusingly.

Magneto cut straight to the point, raising an eyebrow and saying in that infuriatingly smug way, "We're at war, my boy. You certainly don't expect me to entertain the enemy _here_ do you?"

"She wasn't the enemy," Pyro snarled. "How long?"

"What?" Magneto's eyes narrowed a bit.

"How long did you work together?" Pyro was flexing his hands, as if resisting the temptation to start something on fire. "How long was she loyal to you? How long did you just use her without really caring..."

Magneto was in his face before he could finish, causing Pyro a moment of panic. It reminded him of his childhood and he automatically flicked his wristlets and tried to bring his arms into an attack position only to find he could do neither. The ignition seemed to be jammed and his wrists wouldn't move. Metal in the ignitors! he realized, grinding his teeth in frustration, his panic rising slightly.

A cruel smile touched Magneto's lips before his whole face twisted in anger.

"Don't presume to understand anything about my relationship with Mystique," Magneto hissed, leaning in even closer to Pyro's face.

Pyro balled his hands into fists, tugging futilely at his wrists, his heart still pounding. The wristlets wouldn't budge, keeping him trapped in place and the look on Magneto's face was one he'd seen a thousand times before growing up. Magneto flicked his eyes down to Pyro's wrists and back up to his face.

Then the moment was over. The older man's face resumed its usual look of benevolent superiority and he turned back to his desk. Magneto had yet to release his bracers but Pyro still felt a swell of relief as his mentor moved away.

"We have much to prepare for." Magneto was saying. "You have an assignment. I'll give you the details before you leave. Be ready in an hour."

And with that, his wrists were released. Magneto dismissed him with a wave of his hand, patently ignoring Pyro in favor of some papers on his desk. After a pause, Pyro stalked across the room and made his way into the hallway, anger visible in every step and a feeling of betrayal welling up inside. Obviously, Magneto's gift wasn't just a reward for choosing the "right" side or an example of rewards to follow. It had once amused Pyro to think that Magneto's ulterior motive for commissioning the custom wrist-ignitors was because the constant flicking of his lighter had driven the other mutant crazy. Now, he realized it was much more than that.

But the feeling of betrayal warred with a feeling of guilt. Magneto was one of the few people to accept him for who he was. He had essentially taken Pyro in and encouraged him to be himself, to use his abilities for the mutant cause. He treated Pyro like his prodigy, taught him about leading, about controlling his emotions, and about knowing when to be ruthless and when to show mercy. He could only remember one other person who'd shown that kind of interest in him but that was before his mutation manifested. The feeling of guilt blossomed, all but drowning out the betrayal. Did he even have the right to question Magneto's decision in this?

Pyro shook the thoughts off, as he stepped out of the main room and into the hallway to his bedroom, itching to remove the wristlets as quickly as possible. Guilt may have won the battle but the question of whether he'd ever get over the feeling of betrayal continued to whisper in the back of his mind.

As soon as Magneto heard the door slam, his shoulders drooped and his mask of indifference dropped, leaving a look of intense sadness in its place as he stared unseeingly at the papers in front of him.

* * *

Pyro walked into the meeting room from his quarters exactly two minutes before the hour was up. He only had one bracer on and a lighter in his left pocket, just in case. The other bracer was tucked in the very bottom of a drawer in his room, underneath some clothes and a couple of books. He'd come very close to burning them both to a pile of ash when he got back to his room but finally decided he couldn't ignore their advantage so he kept one out to use and saved the other for a backup. He'd gone from guilt back to betrayal, anger and not a little fear before settling on loyalty with caution. Magneto had been doing this a long time and John couldn't deny that he really knew very little about Mystique, so he had to trust that Magneto knew what he was doing. He would never allow himself to be in such a helpless position again but the Brotherhood, this fight-he wanted...no, he _needed_ it to be right.

He was surprised to find quite a few mutants milling about the room when he arrived. He'd been under the impression that Magneto wanted to find the Class 5 mutant Callisto had told them about but he certainly wouldn't need that many people for the job. Juggernaut was standing against the back wall laughing with Tectonic. The Alchemist was slinking around one of their newest members, Sognatore, not that Pyro could blame him.

Sognatore (she liked to be called Sonya) was drop-dead gorgeous with long legs, all the right curves and a sultry voice that could send shivers down your spine. John didn't think there was a person here who wasn't affected by her in some way. Even Magneto had taken an interest, though Pyro was sure it was mainly because of her power (and possibly the affect she seemed to have on others). Sogna was a dreamwalker. She was an Italian mutant, Class 3 according to Callisto, who could enter other people's dreams and influence them. The possibilities for manipulating people is what appealed to Magneto the most, based on what he'd shared with Pyro about her.

Arclight and Quill were talking together, apparently with another mutant that Pyro couldn't see on the other side of the two of them. Magneto was behind his desk having a private conversation with Callisto, who smirked at John as soon as she saw him walk in. Magneto, caught her look and turned toward Pyro with an, "Ah, you're here. I need to speak with you a moment," before pulling him to the base of the stairs away from the other mutants.

John shot Callisto a dirty look before following Magneto but she simply gave him a smug smile and then moved over to join Arclight's little group. As Pyro turned his attention back to Magneto, he caught him looking at his bare left hand and resisted the temptation to hide it behind his back or in his pocket. Instead, he lifted his chin defiantly and waited to see his mentor's response. Magneto nodded with a small smile and looked up at John with approval. His defiance turned to surprised and then puzzlement as he tried to work through what Magneto was thinking. As usual, his mentor handled things head-on.

"You recognized the liability and changed to alter the circumstances. You didn't ignore it and hope it wouldn't happen again or try to curry my favor to keep it from happening and you didn't hide what you did. Bravo, my boy."

Against his will, John felt a swell of pride at Magneto's words. The man was a master at manipulation and John knew this was probably just another way to keep him in line but the praise felt good.

"Now, something has come up. A job I need you specifically to lead." John's eye slid toward Callisto again. She was talking but still looking towards Pyro with that infuriatingly smug look on her face. Before the...thing with Mystique came up, John thought his position in the Brotherhood was secure. He'd still found himself, more than once, feeling like Callisto was competing with him, trying to push him aside to step into his position. Now, even moreso after seeing Magneto turn away from Mystique so easily. He was no longer under the illusion that his mentor wouldn't turn on him as quickly if he thought someone else were more useful.

Magneto's next words hit him like a bucket of ice water. "I've obtained some information about a research company I believe you'll want to look into-Jameson Research Corp."

John's eyes narrowed as he looked at Magneto searchingly, his hands clenching as everything else around him faded. Juggernaut and Tectonic both went silent, looking curiously toward the stairs as the temperature in the room seemed to increase suddenly. Even The Alchemist and Sonya paused a moment in their flirtation to see what was up. Callisto was looking particularly pleased at the situation and John wasn't paying attention to any of them as he stared at Magneto, waiting for more information.

Magneto was watching John carefully. "They seem to be trying to reactivate their branch of research dealing with mutants." He paused, then continued quietly, "They've also apparently been looking for you."

John sucked in a breath at that but still didn't move, continuing to watch Magneto. The temperature surrounding them increased again slightly. Magneto held out a large envelope to John.

"I believe you'll be more interested in following this lead than going to visit an old friend," he murmured with an almost gentle smile. John took the envelope and pulled out the few papers contained within, skimming quickly over the information as Magneto continued.

"That's all the information I was given, though I suspect the...source has more."

John looked back at the first page, realizing Xavier had passed this info onto Magneto with a note to keep an eye on John since he appeared to be a target. He didn't even look at the date, just went back to the other pages to see what information might be useful. There really wasn't much. No location for the company at present, no specific employee names. There was a name of some low-level bureaucrat in D.C. with an address scrawled underneath in messy handwriting, a mention of Jameson working with Worthington to disperse the cure, and some other information that didn't provide anything useful to John-specifically where he could find the company's main facility and how he could get inside to burn the whole fucking thing down.

"...and Callisto's been handling job assignments so I had her choose a couple of mutants to go with you….Unless you have a preference?" John tuned back in as he realized that Magneto was waiting for a response.

"Whatever," he said, impatiently shaking his head. "As long as they can fight, I don't care."

"Pyro," Magneto's stern voice finally brought John's attention back fully to his mentor. He looked up and Magneto continued, "You need to gather some information first. Don't go off on a rampage until you're sure you've got the right location. I want you to find out all you can first, bring back the information to me, and then we'll determine how to take them out."

As John opened his mouth to argue, Magneto continued, talking over his protests, "I know what this means to you, Pyro. How important this is. I understand your need to take deal with this but I want it done right. Understood?"

At John's begrudging nod, Magneto swept by him toward his desk, "Let's get started then, shall we?"

John followed behind more slowly, looking over the information again before taking a breath and stuffing the papers back into the envelope. As he reached Magneto's desk and looked toward Callisto's group, he received his second shock for the day. The mutant they'd been talking to that he couldn't see was Ivy. While he stood there with his mouth hanging open in surprise, she looked up and saw him.

Ivy went white and then flushed an angry red before looking away. He couldn't catch her eye again, as she blatantly avoided looking his way. If Magneto noticed any of this, he ignored it and began laying out their upcoming missions. John listened with half an ear, his mind reeling as he tried to make sense of everything.

Jameson-the company that destroyed his life. And now they seemed to back. He had no idea all this time that they been looking for him. As crappy as everything had been, it seems he'd been lucky in that regard. He wondered, not for the first time, about the other mutant children-how many had there been? How many had Jameson managed to take and experiment on?

And now...Ivy. Here in the Brotherhood's camp. He couldn't decide if he was happy about that or not. He was thrilled that she was alive but knew that if he'd had a choice, he probably wouldn't have wanted her within 100 feet of this war. Ironically, he'd be happier if she were at Xavier's. Guilt and anger churned together in his gut as Magneto finished up and he'd barely heard 3 words. He wasn't even sure who was supposed to be going with him until Ivy suddenly bit out, "No! Absolutely not!" and then stalked across the room and up the stairs.

The silence was thick as every eye in the room turned toward John. They all looked stunned except Callisto, who looked thoroughly satisfied. John turned to watch Ivy as she reached the top of the stairs and disappeared. He braced himself before turning back toward the room but was saved from having to explain anything when The Alchemist spoke up from the back.

"I'm going." John gave him a relieved look before exhaling heavily, hoping Magneto wouldn't press the issue. Unsurprisingly, Callisto spoke up.

"I don't think it's a good idea to send three higher class mutants on a mission like this, with Pyro and Sonya going. I can find someone else to replace Ivy since she's so against working with him." The last was said with a bite to it, John assumed to emphasize the issue between he and Ivy.

" _I'm_ going," The Alchemist repeated, tilting his head slightly and giving Callisto a look that said 'don't cross me.' John decided right then that he would never tease the guy about his name again, even if The Alchemist was doing this just so he could be with Sonya.

"I appreciate it," Magneto said, nodding toward the other mutant. "I'm not sure what this company has been doing over the last several years but they appear to have a vested interest in taking Pyro and I'd like to avoid that at all costs. Be careful and assume the company is well-funded, aggressive and ruthless until we find out otherwise." Magneto's eyes rested on John again, speaking to him more so than the others.

Juggernaut stirred at the sudden silence, "Well that was...interesting," in a tone that said it was anything but. "Now can we get this fucking show on the road?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I miscounted previously and was actually only planning on having 13 chapters but as long as some of these chapters have been getting, I might split the final one up (I have a lot planned for that chapter that could go quickly or take awhile depending how it goes as I'm writing it). I'm going to leave it set at 14 for now since it seems like it will end up there. Either way, this particularly story is nearing it's end soon.
> 
> Also, as usual, if you see something you think is particularly out of character or is too non-canon, please let me know. I do actually love hearing from people and only bite when asked.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never read the comics or gotten into any other X-Men media besides the movies. This story and the next one planned are set in the original timeline, first 3 movies. I don't currently have plans to venture into the alternate timeline at this point. The first story is fully set within the first 3 movies; the second one can probably be viewed as happening before the alternate timeline kicks in.


End file.
